


the stars are out tonight (but you can't see them)

by mxrganapendragon



Category: Broadway - Fandom, Merlin (TV), Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, Broadway, F/M, Fluff, Food, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Musical References, Pining, musical theatre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 59,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7819930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxrganapendragon/pseuds/mxrganapendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Pendragon is Broadway's resident Hot Belting Tenor Heartthrob. The producers love him, the fans love him, everyone loves him. Especially his insignificant dresser Merlin. </p><p>(Or, in which Merlin eats a lot of fancy cookies and laments over Arthur's high A's. That is, his ass.)<br/>_____</p><p>"Merlin thinks that many things taste good. Red Velvet cookies, for example, are his favourite, though he knows that Arthur has a thing for Caramel Apple Crisps. Merlin also likes sweet and sour pork, and the comforting miasma of alcohol lurking inside his mouth. He also imagines that Arthur’s lips would taste rather nice as well, like the tinges of a golden sunset, the American Dream, a flawlessly executed coloratura passage.  And caramel.<br/>Merlin also likes to combine some his favourite tastes. A good combination, he remembers, is sweet and sour pork from the place down the road with a Red Velvet to top it off. A combination to rival that, he learns tonight, is the sacred haze of two AM alcohol and the salted caramel of Arthur’s lips."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. oatmeal scotchie

**Author's Note:**

> A heads up: this is a fic for the Broadway Nerd™. If you don't know what's going on, here's a very bad summary of shows/characters:  
> WICKED: Musical in which green girl has cool magical powers but everyone hates her because she's green. eventually befriends popular blonde chick and they go to The Big City™ where shit gets fucked up and everyone ever hates green girl (high notes.) blonde chick + hot ass get engaged. hot ass is actually in love with green girl and they run away together. blonde chick tries to convince everyone that green girl is actually fine because they're bffs. everyone tries to kill green girl. she "dies" and blonde chick gets sad and everyone cries  
> Elphaba: aforementioned green girl  
> G(a)linda: aforementioned popular blonde chick  
> Fiyero: hot guy that everyone is in love with, sings lots of high notes, great ass (thx costume designers)  
> Boq: endearing munchkin in love w/ glinda that nobody actually cares about
> 
> A Connecticut Yankee: cute comic musical about the arthurian legend set in the 1920's  
> Camelot: cute comic musical. u can tell what it's about probably
> 
>  
> 
> NB: This is in no way, shape or form endorsed by Schmackary's. I've never been to Schmackary's. I wish I could go to Schmackary's. I live in Australia. 
> 
> I've loved Merlin for so, so long, but this was my first time putting that love into words. Concrit 100% appreciated !!

**prologue**

 

_gershwin theatre, new york city, august 6_

Usually, nobody cares about Merlin when he leaves the theatre through the stagedoor.

The fans are too busy flocking over the stars, the actors, anyone but an insignificant dresser. However, this cast change has brought him some new attention.

And by new attention, he means one sixteen year old girl walks up to him just beside the buzzing crowds after a busy Saturday night on Broadway, just to talk to Merlin about anything other than himself.

“Hi, are you the dresser for Fiyero?” is all it takes for Merlin to register that this girl is trying to get through stagedoor to meet one of the most popular actors on a Broadway stage.  
“I am,” Merlin plays along. “Our newest Fiyero should be out in a matter of minutes. He’s very strict about his vocal warm down procedures that I’m not too keen on tuning into every night from now on.”  
The girl stifles a laugh, pulling awkwardly at her _Wicked_ shirt. Merlin winces. He’s always had a slight disgust for fans who wear show merchandise for the show they’re seeing. Seems overenthusiastic to him, though he’s not one to talk about loving musical theatre.

It is at this moment that the crowd goes wild, and Merlin doesn’t need to turn to determine who has just appeared at stagedoor.

“Arthur Pendragon!” comes the cries and riffs of a hundred teenaged girls, and boys, and hell, everyone becomes transfixed by the young actor standing tall before them. The girl with the Wicked shirt runs off with her playbill and sharpie, barging her way back through the crowd. Arthur takes his time as he starts picking through the crowd, signing playbills and taking selfies.

Merlin, though with no obligation to do so, waits back to watch. The questions flow on and on; “How was your first show as Fiyero?” “How many riffs are you going to put in? “How does it feel getting to make out with Guinevere eight times a week?” To which Arthur replies; “The best experience of my career,” “I have a lot of high-A’s in the tank, watch out!” and, “Guinevere is so gorgeous that sometimes she makes me wish I were straight.”

It takes Arthur forty minutes to get through barely half the determined crowd, which Merlin decides must be some new record. He starts to get more selective with the playbills that he signs, hurrying back to return a bronze metallic sharpie, before posing with yet another group of merchandise-loaded girls. Merlin retreats to Schmackary’s.

_-+-_

 

In all his hardships and struggles as a Broadway dresser, Schmackary’s cookies have always been there for Merlin. He wouldn’t be surprised to find Broadway superstar Arthur Pendragon peering over the seasonal menu day in and day out. Though, he would be surprised to find Broadway superstar Arthur Pendragon sliding into the chair next to him at close to one in the morning.

“I thought gourmet cookies were on a strict two-show day basis,” Merlin looks up from his phone as Arthur slumps his head on the table, arms folding under his closed eyes.  
“There’s only so many sharpie fumbles one can handle in a night without needing a good Oatmeal Scotchie,” Arthur mumbles, his breath clouding the marble tabletop. He stretches out a hand as evidence, impressing Merlin with the black and gold patterns etched into his skin. Merlin snorts before resigning to his Red Velvet. Arthur resumes whining to the table.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin eventually makes the disgruntled actor shut up after a good five minutes of muffled complaints, “this is the fourth on-Broadway show I’ve worked with you on. You say you’re not typecast, but, hell, you are. How different is this role to any other one that you’ve played? What’s caused the downfall of the mighty Arthur ‘My Headshot Is Always Printed First, Even When The Program Is In Alphabetical Order’ Pendragon?”  
“Okay, my headshot isn’t printed first this time, but that’s not the deal,” Arthur mutters, otherwise accepting the truths Merlin spits.  
“Then what is it? With _A Connecticut Yankee_ the biggest problem was the fact that there were an even number of seats which made the stalls distractingly symmetrical. With Camelot, your run started on a Tuesday matinee. You said nothing could ever be more tragic, but this is turning out to be a disaster beyond comparison.” Merlin turns his gaze away from his hypnotising cookie for a second to eye up the defeated Arthur in the seat next to him.  
“You,” Arthur breathes quietly into his sleeve, and Merlin is piqued, “you are not _my_ dresser anymore.”  
Merlin swings back in his chair, pursing his lips at Arthur’s petty tantrums. “Apologies, your royal highness,” Merlin bows as well as he can without disrupting his position on his chari, placing down the paper bag housing the remaining half of his cookie, “but Fiyero isn’t important enough these days to require an entire personal dresser for himself. He’ll have to share with Boq for now. Sincerest regrets.”  
Arthur rotates his face so that his cheek is pressed flush against the cool table. Merlin can't help but smile at the sight of Broadway’s greatest heartthrob reduced to a drab green hoodie, tousled hair, and a squished face on a Schmackary’s tabletop at one in the morning.

He stares at Merlin long enough for Merlin to form some sort of coherent thought. “You’re crashing at mine,” he decides, “you have a Sunday matinee for the first time in three years tomorrow, your highness.”

Merlin vaguely recollects a bright flash of light from outside, amplified by the polished glass. When he looks, nothing but the dimly dancing streetlights dare to glow. 

With that, Arthur sweeps up his Oatmeal Scotchie and sluggishly sweeps out as Merlin holds the glass door open.

_-+-_


	2. classic chocolate chip

**chapter one / classic chocolate chip**

_merlin's apartment, sunnyside_

The night after his first show as Fiyero, Arthur's agent (secondarily, father,) calls Arthur's mobile twenty three times. Arthur has twenty three missed calls by the time he wakes up at 9 on Sunday. 

_-+-_

Merlin is awake by seven, as per usual. He doesn't need to look to tell that that Arthur will sleep for another good few hours, and this gives him time to do what he hadn't dared to do last night. 

A small, simple shelf stands proud by the door, holding up Merlin's prize collection of various playbills, programs, and other stupidly sentimental pieces of memorabilia. He knows that the playbills that he saves hone little to no monetary value, but that's not what's important to Merlin, he reminds himself, as he takes the first one down. Holding it as carefully as humanly possible, he cradles the  _Les Miserables_ playbill in his left palm, leafing open the cover quietly. He doesn't care for the big names that he turns past, flipping through pages until he finds the 50 word biographies the ensemble is permitted to publish, the majority proclaiming their theatre credits and their love for their family and their thanks to God and their instagram username. None ever thank their incredible dressers for lugging their heavy costumes miles on end, keeping every piece of every outfit labelled and clean, making sure every pair of shoes is replaced every month and a half or otherwise as needed. 

_Freya Bastet, Tristain de Bois, Cenred Essetir, Agravain Orkney..._

**_ARTHUR PENDRAGON_ ** _[Ensemble, Enjolras u/s] Broadway debut! Credits include: Fosse (Chicago 2009) Les Miserables (Regional) Great Comet (Touring)  ARTEMIS (World Premiere Cast, Australia.) Arthur would like to thank his dresser, friend, and favourite idiot for helping him get here. Thanks, Merlin, but  you only get half of my fifty words._

It's Merlin's favourite playbill. He places it back on the shelf, taking down the one next to it; an equally invaluable one from the  _A_ _Connecticut Yankee_ revival. Merlin flips straight to the page he's looking for.  

 **_ARTHUR PENDRAGON_ ** _[Martin] Original Revival Cast. Bway: Les Miserables. Touring: Great Comet. World Premiere: ARTEMIS. Regional: Fosse, Les Miserables. Arthur would like to thank his dresser Merlin Emrys for keeping his head screwed on thus far. Stop arriving half an hour after call time every show, dollophead._

 

Upon remembering how much of a flop the show was, Merlin smiles as he replaces the playbill on its shelf, pulling down one from the opposite side of the shelf.  _Camelot._ Merlin decides that Arthur's headshot in this playbill is by far the most awkward; he remembers the complaints Arthur had rained down on him the week before the playbill he holds had been printed. A day too late to return to the photographer to get a headshot less resemblant of an early-80's glamour shot, bangs parted down the middle, the headshot had been published in thousands of playbills, much to Arthur's dismay. Merlin had spent hours reassuring the diva that it was fine, it wasn't the end of his career, and that he would help Arthur find a new headshot photographer as soon as he possibly could.

 **_ARTHUR PENDRAGON_ ** _[King Arthur] Ha ha ha, Merlin, very funny, my character and I have the same name. Hello everyone, you wouldn't believe how long my idiot of a dresser laughed about that. Bway: Martin (A Connecticut Yankee ORC) Les Miserables. Touring: Great Comet. World Premiere: ARTEMIS._

He still hasn't put up last night's playbill, so Merlin decides that this will be the time to do it. Carefully fishing the thin booklet from his bag, he takes his time going through the new playbill, running his fingers over the young ink markings on the cast page.

 _Elphaba .......... Guinevere Thomas_  
_Glinda ............. Morgause Belisent_  
_Fiyero ............. Arthur Pendragon_  
_Boq ................. Mordred Medraut_

Though he finds his friends in the inked lines of the principal cast, ensemble, orchestra, and standbys, Merlin can't help but flick towards the back of the program (past Arthur's very updated, very attractive headshot) to the biographies.

 **_ARTHUR PENDRAGON_ ** _[Fiyero] Bway: King Arthur (Camelot) (Ha ha, Merlin) Martin (A Connecticut Yankee ORC) Les Miserables. World Premiere: ARTEMIS.  
_ _Website: www.arthurpendragon.com Instagram: @pendragon I don't actually know how to use Instagram. Merlin made me get it. If you don't recall, Merlin Emrys is my idiot of a dresser who sometimes buys me cookies. He owes me seasonal specials if I get twitter._

 

There's a notification on his phone from last night, Merlin notices, after he has cleared out a place on his shelf for the  _Wicked_ playbill. 

@ _arthurpendragon_ _has mentioned you in a tweet_ : @merlinemrys how do i work this????? help????

_-+-_

 

It's a particularly pleasant way to get woken up, Arthur decides, to the scent of Caramel Apple Crisp and Pumpkin Spice cookies drifting around him. 

_-+-_

_gershwin theatre_

Merlin's call time, as a dresser, is relatively closer to showtime than that of the actors. Arthur is at the theatre by one for the two-thirty matinee. Merlin's call time is half past one. He shows up fifteen minutes late, which, in Merlin's eyes, is fifteen minutes earlier than usual. 

"You're late,  _Mer_ lin," Arthur lets rip as soon as he hears panting when his dressing room door opens.   
"Hmm. Hope your makeup's done. Up," Merlin gestures as Arthur finishes up with his hair. Merlin is already holding half of Arthur's first costume, hoisting his white shirt on in record time and the vest on in a few extra seconds. He leaves Arthur to his leggings and unexciting vocal warmup, rushing down the hall to Mordred's dressing room to get him ready for the show. He's barely there for half a minute when a loud " _Mer_ lin!" sends him racing back down the hall. 

"You're literally not even onstage for the first fifteen minutes of the show," Merlin rants, picking Arthur's prop bag off of a hook on the wall.   
"An actor must be ready and prepared -"  
"At all times, I know, I know," Merlin finishes Arthur's signature quote for him. "Good to go," he says, ripping out the door again.   
" _Mer_ lin!" comes the call before Merlin is even past the edge of the doorframe, and the dark hair pops back in a split second.   
"Caramel Apple Crisp wins."

Mordred has to ask why Merlin is smiling so much while he dresses him.

_-+-_

"You're literally so fucking domestic," Morgana exhales loudly, her heels clicking quickly along the New York Pavement. New York tempo, she calls it. Merlin, a sad Irishman, calls it Rockets With Too Much Fuel And All It's Booster Things On pace. "So, so domestic. You're his dresser. You put clothes on him. You clothe his literal body so he can perform in a Broadway show eight times a week and you're denying that you're domestic."  
"Hard to ignore some things," Gwen adds softly (vocal rest,) her slightly smaller legs working harder to keep up with the tall frames of Merlin and Morgana.  
"And not just because I work in PR and know how people work and all, because I do," Morgana clarifies, "but you and Arthur, Jesus fucking Christ. Do something about it."

Merlin tolerates this all the way from the Gershwin to Schmackary's. Which, thankfully, for the sake of his sanity and cookies, isn't long. He orders his usual Red Velvet and a Coconut Chip, something old and something new. Morgana goes Cereal Killer, Gwen, Caramel Delight. 

"I'm not dropping this whole claims of domesticity thing," Morgana points a long finger in Merlin's general direction after they sit, "because I know you've had this thing for my brother, heaven knows why, since you saw him ass naked during his Les Mis run."  
Merlin turns a similar shade of red to his cookie, which Gwen laughs at. Merlin feels betrayed.  
"Guenivere Thomas, I thought you were on my side," he pouts, before his phone buzzes.

@ _arthurpendragon_ _has mentioned you in a tweet_ : @merlinemrys @guenivere_t @queenmorgana two show day. you know what that means.

 

Merlin goes back to get two Caramel Apple Crisps. 

_-+-_

 

Merlin is only fifteen minutes late again - (" _Mer_ lin!") - which he is quite proud of, considering his past records (" _Mer_ lin, do you think I'm going to dress myself?") and very un-Arthurian habits (" _Mer_ lin, these are Leon's leggings! Do I look like an understudy to you?" To which he had replied, "Maybe," for which he had been rewarded with a polite boot to the head.)

The show is smooth, Merlin gets most of his required changes done smoothly despite his lack of practice on a new show. He learns that he only has to hold Mordred's school belt on the second notch, not the third. He learns that wig changes are a lot harder under pressure in a show with what seems like a thousand absurd wigs. He learns that Arthur puts his tinted glasses to the left of the books in his prop bag, which is dumb, because he leans to the left in the dance scene all the time which will eventually crush his glasses which are already scratched by the second show and Merlin will not put up with Arthur ranting about scratched glasses when it is  _completely_ and  _utterly_ his own fault and -

This is when Merlin gets a book thrown at his head for holding Arthur's vest armholes too low.  

_-+-_

They fall into a routine with every show they do, especially for two show days. The nights are long and tiring - shows take a lot out of Arthur but he wouldn't spend his energy any other way. Arthur gets his makeup off, Merlin lifts the Act II costume onto its hangers and then onto their rack, scanning them twice over because Arthur can get quite reckless with the care of his costumes. Then he goes over the Act I costumes again, and the props and accessories, then makes a quick escape to Mordred's dressing room when he can sense that Arthur is poised to start his vocal warm down. 

Arthur runs through scales, lip trills, too many breathing exercises to count, which takes him a good twenty minutes after Merlin leaves. He slings his heavy coat around him just as he hears a slam of the stagedoor which can be attributed only to his slack dresser.

"Just me," Merlin is accustomed to saying, when all the heads at the stagedoor dart towards the sound of the heavy door closing. He's learned, through the years and the shows, that nobody gives two shits about him. Actually, he's pretty lucky if someone gives a singular shit about him. But he gets on without their shits, singular or duple, and he strides away from the crowd to wait through the hours that Arthur will waste taking selfies with every single person.

It makes Merlin happy, to see Arthur smile like he does around fans. Merlin loves that Arthur loves what he does, loves that Arthur is happy belting onstage and being adored offstage. He's a bit bitter about the fact that these crazed teenaged girls are currently closer to Arthur than he will ever get.

_-+-_

Arthur always keeps a bottle of lavender oil on his dressing room table.   
"It's a great anti-stress agent," Arthur always answered when questioned about it, "I've used it since my early college days."  
"He just means it smells nice, and Arthur's a sap," Merlin adds, to which he is always rewarded with, "shut up,  _Mer_ lin, and do your job."

_-+-_

 

Arthur has cookies. Arthur is happy.

Such is what Arthur proclaims as he marches down Broadway, during the hour when New York City is as dark as it can possibly get.

Merlin shifts his arms as they walk, so that his backpack straps run over his elbows.

"You probably owe me a thousand dollars worth of cookies, by this stage," Merlin retorts as Arthur munches on his Caramel Apple Crisp.  
"In good time, Merlin."  
"That time better come soon," Merlin huffs, "Fall seasonal specials are by far the best."  
Arthur snorts. "You _clearly_ haven't had a White Chocolate Cherry Chunker. Or  _existed_ in Summer whatsover," he gestures to Merlin's pale, semi-ghostly skin tone. Merlin is offended. 

 _"Domestic,"_ he remembers Morgana's voice in his head, as they walk their separate ways at the metro. 

Arthur's train comes first. He waves at Merlin from across the tracks, before he is gone.

Arthur does a lot of that whole _leaving_ thing. Leaves with a court wave or salute and a dip of his head and a vaguely upwards curvature of his lips. And then he is gone, whisked away by a metal monster. Most of the time he comes back.

Merlin gets on his train. And falls asleep. 

 


	3. peanut butter after dark

**chapter two**

Merlin is taller than Arthur. 

He knows this fact because Morgana harassed Arthur for three weeks  _straight_ when Merlin's lanky figure outgrew Merlin.

"It's his hair today," Arthur had argued, "it's sticking up weirdly again."  
"My hair is like this everyday, dollophead."  
"Mmm," Morgana studies Merlin's sad hairstyle. "Arthur, just accept that Merlin is taller than you."

Arthur slumps back in his dressing room seat, defeated.

 

_-+-_

"I get Mondays off now," Arthur's voice is crackled through Merlin's battered, second-hand phone. The sound quality doesn't do Arthur's voice justice. Apart from his obviously luscious, rivers of molten chocolate singing voice, Arthur's speaking voice has the same feeling as sinking into the world's softest mattress, surrounded by silken sheets, at the end of a long day. It is this thought that Merlin indulges in when a stream of static insults his ears, punishing him from having ignored Arthur for too long, only to be thinking about him instead. 

"Which means show night," Merlin concludes. The only thing Arthur loves as much as being on stage is watching his friends be on stage. "Gwaine is on tonight," Merlin offers, "they love a good understudy day at Something Rotten. Lance is always on, his understudies hate how he powers on. Like a machine. Hasn't taken a single show off in his run."

"Sounds like a plan," and Arthur hangs up.

_-+-_

_st. james theatre_

Merlin has seen Arthur in a suit so many times; opening night parties, press showings, dinners with producers.

But he can never get over the sight. Arthur is a vision, all clean cut lines and angles and navy blues and polished shoes. And standing under the glow of the lights of the St. James theatre, the night is just a little bit brighter when the stars are on Earth. 

Gwen and Morgana are there too; all fancy dresses and high heels and darkened eyelids. The theater compliments them, old-fashioned architecture intertwining its sunset hues with the pale gold of Gwen's dress and the burgundy wine of Morgana's. 

They don't get much time to talk, because Merlin is  _very_ much later than their scheduled meeting time, but some words are still exchanged:

"New suit," Merlin says, knowing  _of course_ ,  _Arthur never repeats a suit to the same theater, and they'd been to St. James already for_ Side Show  _the year before._  
"Of course," Arthur says, "we've been to St. James already for _Side Show_ last year."

And after some bickering between Morgana and Arthur that Merlin fails to remember, the doors to the theater are opened and the quartet take their seats in the centre of the stalls.

_-+-_

"But have you  _ever_ seen a sexier Shakespeare?" Gwaine is completely invested in his Chunky Monkey cookie, looking like he could clean it up in a single bite.  
"Contestable," Merlin pipes up from behind his Caramel Delight (they don't have Red Velvets on Monday) and looks pointedly at Arthur.  
"Come  _on_ ," Arthur whines, "that was for  _one_ show in college."  
Morgana snorts.  
"If we're done reliving Arthur's embarrassing college performances," Gwaine points to himself, "William Shakespeare is sitting right before you."  
"You were amazing, Gwaine," Gwen goes to satisfy Broadway's newest Shakespeare's craving for attention, "we wouldn't have expected anything less from you." 

She is holding Lance's hand, which Merlin finds even more sickly sweet than his Caramel Delight.   
"Mmm, cute," Morgana muses when she notices. 

 

"It's ten thirty," Arthur says later, scrunching up his bag littered with Peanut Butter After Dark crumbs.  
"So you can read," Merlin claps. "Well done, your highness."  
Displeased, Arthur repeats, "It's ten thirty, and tomorrow is proshot day."  
Merlin groans. He hates proshot days; professional photos for publication means he has to be extra meticulous in everything he does. Not that he's not completely meticulous all the time, but proshots means that he has to be even better than perfect if Arthur is going to be even vaguely satisfied.   
"Well," he says, his chair scraping as he stands up, "if I'm going to be down in history, it's going to be for being the greatest dresser of Fiyero of all time."  
"Arthur could go  _down_ as the Fiyero with the greatest ass of all time."  
"Gwaine, you are sickeningly straight, and I would appreciate it if you would move enough to let me proceed with my royal duties."  
Gwaine doesn't budge. He knows what he wants. "Looks like you're trapped, and your proshots are going to be less than satisfactory tomorrow," he smirks.

Merlin offers a ransom for his freedom, which Gwaine accepts. 

"Caramel Delight is  _good,_ " comes the last words from Schmackary's as Merlin and Arthur escape Gwaine's wrath together.

"Ten AM tomorrow," Arthur repeats for what sounds like the millionth time."  
"It's eleven," Merlin coughs, the crisp air getting to his bare throat.   
"For you, consider it ten," Arthur looks Merlin in the eye for just a little too long before huffing and turning towards his apartment.

Merlin breathes out slowly, his breath visible in front of him. The silver cloud disappears upwards, floating away into oblivion.   
"Same," Merlin says to nobody, amused when the breath he releases causes the cloud to appear again. 

_-+-_

"Are you sick? Oh my  _god_ ," Arthur panics as he checks his watch. 9:58. And Merlin is there. An hour and two minutes earlier than he needs to be. "Something is wrong," Arthur darts to check Merlin's temperature, tipping the lanky dresser backwards. Balance was never Merlin's strong suit. 

As Merlin picks himself up off of the floor, Arthur checks his watch another three times, just to make sure he's not seeing things.   
"You're pretty good at telling the time, aren't you," Merlin pats his hair down. The gesture does nothing.   
"You're  _early,_ " Arthur says. "Early. Merlin. Early. _Merlin Emrys is early._ That is something I thought I'd never say."  
"By some miracle of nature," Merlin mutters as he brushes himself off and strides ahead of Arthur through the corridors of the theater. He passes Arthur's dressing room, and only stops walking when he hears some high-pitched whining from behind him.

"You're going to dress  _Mordred_ before me?" 

Arthur looks truly devastated, and Merlin turns back to see that he has turned on _the puppy-dog eyes_ and Merlin is simply helpless. 

He knows that Mordred's shots are first. That he needs to get Mordred dressed as soon as he possibly can so their Boq can get through makeup and wigs in time for his first set of proshots. That his job in this place is to get actors ready to get on stage in time.  But Arthur has  _the puppy dog eyes_ on.

Merlin turns back down the hall. His reward is a glistening smile from Arthur, and he decides that it was worth it.

_-+-_

"He said he was just too much of a diva to live without his own dresser," Merlin laments, elbows heavy on the table, hands clasping a Cranberry Dream.  
"Arthur admitting he's a diva, that's new," Gwen says.   
"Arthur can live without his own dresser, that much I'm sure of," Morgana purses her lips, "but I'm not sure if he can live without you."

This makes Merlin think. Morgana and Gwen must have mistaken this for Merlin going dead for a minute, but he clarifies his thoughts quickly.

"Les Mis," he lays down his argument, "I dressed him and four other actors in the male ensemble. I saw him for a fifth of my time that I spent in that theater."  
"Correct," Morgana issues, "but he was talking about you for a hell of a lot more than a fifth of his time in that theater."  
"A Connecticut Yankee, I was just there for him, right?"  
"And that was one of his most successful runs that I've ever seen him in, ever."  
"Camelot --"  
"Let me guess, you were only there for him?"  
"Well, there to do my job, but yes --"  
"I can tell. He takes no time at all to get into the swing of things when you're there, Merlin." Morgana pushes herself away from the table. "I don't know  _what_ you do to him before shows," -- Gwen grimaces -- "but it's working. Stick to it."  
"I don't particularly  _want_ to know what you do to him," Gwen mutters into her Funfetti.   
"The both of you," Merlin waves a long finger between the two women, "are disgusting, and if you don't mind, I have an evening show to dress  _two_ actors for."  


_-+-_

During some shows, it feels like Merlin never shuts his eyes. He says that it's because he's too focused on his job, readying himself for quick changes that are over in a spin, a split second. But it's obvious that he is transfixed with musical theatre. He knows that he is the luckiest man on earth, getting to watch Broadway's biggest blockbuster, show after show, from the wings. Where the orchestra sounds purest, where the angles of the actors are completely unique to all the audience will ever see. 

The opening chords of the show do it for him every night. When Mordred is on the opposite side of the stage for the first eight minutes and twenty seconds, and Arthur is watching the show from his side, just in front of him. The strength of the trumpets, the dazzling overture that had won over millions of people across the world, the way the too-bright lights laced through Arthur's hair, making it even more golden --

And this is when Merlin tears his eyes away, and returns to his place at the costume rack, ready for Mordred's first forty-second quick change.

That night, when he goes to put the costumes away after their final bows, Merlin nearly knocks over the dumb bottle of lavender oil in Arthur's dressing room. It's the only thing that almost knocks him out of his ethereal haze. 

_-+-_

The show is good. Arthur has been in as Fiyero for a week now, but the fans still haven't calmed down. They're still insane for him, so much so, that Merlin has time to  _walk_ to Schmackary's and back, and still have five minutes to wait before Arthur is done at stagedoor. 

"Peanut Butter After Dark to go," Merlin holds up the striped paper bag, an offering to ease Arthur from the sharpie patterns left on his hands.  
"They're no Caramel Apple Crisp, but they'll have to do," Arthur says, accepting the bag.   
Merlin translates in his head, "Thank you so, so, much Merlin. You are really the light in my life. Thanks a million times over for these delicious cookies."  
"Welcome," he rolls his eyes instead as they begin to walk. 

They walk past Schmackary's; Merlin has been getting Arthur's usual post-show cookies to go these past few show nights, due to the abnormally long amount of time Arthur always spends with fans.  
"It's the best part of my job," Arthur argues.  
"What, being surrounded by people who love you," Merlin taps his fingers against his backpack strap.  
"That's a bad way of putting it," Arthur's eyebrows furrow as he gets started with his cookie.   
"It's not not true, though. They wait half an hour for you to sing some dumb scales while they're on the cusp of hypothermia at that stagedoor, all the while pushing each other down over those metal barricades to get a foot closer to you. And all so they can get your signature and a selfie with you. If only they knew what they were missing out on."  
"Are you taking me for granted, Merlin?" Arthur stops walking, which takes Merlin a while to register, and Arthur has that stupid smirk on his face that makes Merlin go red. He's thankful that the lights are strangely dimmer than usual tonight, and he turns away from Arthur to keep walking.  
"No one would ever  _dare_ take you for granted, my lord," Merlin mutters, upping his pace, before realising that Arthur is working to move his legs a lot faster than usual to keep up.  
"Sorry, I forgot you were shorter than me."  
Arthur shoves him in the side, making Merlin skitter in his step momentarily. "You're going to be forgetting a lot more than that when I'm through with you," Arthur finishes what he started.

Merlin believes him. 


	4. fluffer nutter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more Broadway Nerd terminology for you, just in case!  
> Feinstein's 54 Below: A performance venue where Broadway artists often perform solo or small group shows, also you eat good food while your favourite artists sing. Basically heaven I guess  
> Stephen Sondheim: god basically  
> (a really fuckin amazing composer, famous for Into the Woods, Follies, Assassins, Sweeney Todd, Company, Merrily We Roll Along, A Little Night Music, Pacific Overtures ......)  
> una corda: one of the pedals on a piano. the one that makes it quieter.

**chapter three**

_merlin's apartment, sunnyside_

In his (rare) spare time, Merlin composes.

He has a piano in his apartment, a farewell gift from the previous tenant, who for some reason had left  _New York City_ for Argentina. How the humid summers and reports of giant dinosaur fossils were in any way enticing, Merlin did not understand. He found New York much more to his liking, the constant white noise becoming his lullaby. 

He also has a large stack of manuscript, donated by some temporarily doting great-aunt who had since given up on his cause. He doesn't know her name, and he is sure that he will never learn it. He prefers to keep the manuscript donation untied from her name. Maybe she's dead. Maybe she's his neighbour. 

This morning, Merlin has been blessed with a few hours of free time before he has to leave to meet his call time. He lifts the lid of his piano before anything else, and rests his fingers lightly on the ivory.

He plays, and plays, transcribing whenever he comes up with a particularly radiant run in the left hand. Or a sweet soprano counter-melody, reminiscent of a lark, which takes him soaring away above any of his worries. 

By the time he lowers the piano lid, he is already going to be ten minutes late for call time. How the time passes, he doesn't know, but it is already six in the evening and Merlin has not left the piano stool the whole day. 

_-+-_

The first time he catches Arthur singing one of his songs, Merlin is deathly afraid.

"I stole it from your apartment one night," Arthur says matter-of-factly, "showed it to my agent. Uther said it was good." Arthur is good at ignoring Merlin's mortified expression, focusing on his hair in the dressing room mirror instead. "He says I should use it for my solo show this month."

"You are  _not_ using my unfinished manuscripts for your solo show at  _Feinstein's 54 Below,_ " Merlin whines, and Arthur frowns.

"But it's just in the best part of my range, and I get to show off," Arthur looks like he's going to turn on the puppy-dog eyes, "and it's a gorgeous composition in it's own right. But Sondheim still shouldn't worry."

Merlin had just gotten used to the compliments. "Rude," he says, slumping against the doorframe. "I can't believe that you don't think I pose a very serious threat to whatever show Sondheim dares to premiere next, now that I'm on the scene."  
"Merlin," Arthur says, very serious, "I  _know_ that Stephen Sondheim won't have to compete with you."   
Merlin's face sags, accepting defeat. He knows his compositions don't come even vaguely close to those of Sondheim, of course, but -  
"I know that Sondheim won't be competing with you because no way in hell am I going to be giving up my best dresser to the lures of fame and fortune." He pauses. "Also, the cuffs of my act two jacket are starting to fray already."  
"Love you too," Merlin mutters, pushing through the rack on the side of the room to the offending jacket.

_-+-_

Merlin is done restitching the sleeves and cuffs of the jacket in twenty minutes. He runs a finger over the stiff golden embellishments over the shoulders and chest of the jacket. Unconventional as any item of clothing could be, the zipper ran down the bottom of one sleeve, all the way to the waist. Merlin traces his fingers over the strange zipper as he returns the jacket to its Act II hanger. He makes for Arthur's dressing room quickly, his long legs serving him well.

"Arthur, your jacket is -"

And Arthur isn't in his dressing room. But this is what is supposed to happen.

Of course, Merlin is running on a schedule ten minutes later than the schedule everyone else in the building is running on. Arthur would be getting his mic pack on now, before a customary weekly mic check, and Merlin resigns the hanger to the rack. 

Before he leaves, Merlin looks at the room. He realises that he has never really looked around Arthur's dressing room without Arthur being in it before. It feels strangely empty.

Not just because Arthur keeps less  _stuff_ in his dressing room, (which he undeniably does,) but it feels empty because Arthur isn't there. Arthur, who fills up any space without having to say anything. The room is colder by a degree or two, but maybe that's just Merlin. The mirror looks more blue, the hue creeping in around the edges without Arthur's extravagant vibrance to keep it away. There are three Polaroid photos tacked up in the lower left corner of the mirror, two of which Merlin recognises. 

The first is too bright; of Arthur and Morgana sitting with a small dog he doesn't recognise, scattered in piles of Christmas-plagued wrapping paper. Merlin assumes that this photo was taken long before he met either of the Pendragons; Morgana's hair is cut in a bob and Arthur's has a strange shade of brown to it. It feels unnatural, to see the Golden Boy with brown hair. There are legs in the back of the photo, with no face to claim them. Merlin assumes that they belong to Uther. But the dog calls out to Merlin, making him rethink that he didn't recognise it. Maybe he does, maybe he's seen it in passing in a photo on Arthur's phone, or heard about it in a story.  _Cavall_ is the name that comes to mind, but no more. Merlin wonders who took the photo.

The second photo is of primarily Gwen and Lance, smiling at each other. Upon further observation, Merlin notices a (very) drunk Gwaine and a (less) drunk Morgana in the foreground. Merlin recalls Gwen owning one of those quaint, pastel Polaroid cameras, a birthday present from her friend a few years ago that she had managed to keep alive despite Arthur's frequent abuse of it. Gwaine is making some kind of offensive gang sign with his hands, Morgana replicating it halfheartedly with her left hand. The photo is too dark and too blurry, and this gives it away as Arthur's photography. Merlin doesn't remember the particular night out, based on what his friends are wearing. Perhaps he had been called in to work for different actors at one of Arthur's shows, rendering him unavailable.

The third photo is a bit different. It's the only one which has been properly taken, ruling both Arthur and Gwaine out of the equation as possible photographers. But of course Arthur was out of the equation - he is in the photo. Merlin's in it, too. It's from Arthur's first night as Fiyero, when he had crashed at Schmackary's in that abhorrent green hoodie after being emotionally bombarded at stagedoor. The moment captured, Merlin remembers second for second; Arthur turning his tired face up to look at Merlin, sea blue eyes washed out by the counter force of dim streetlamps. Merlin is looking back at Arthur, looking down, smiling. The photo really is immaculately taken, causing him to lean towards thinking Gwen as being the photographer guilty for the Polaroid. Now he remembers that absurd flash of white light before he had convinced Arthur to leave Schmackary's that night, remembers looking to see nothing possibly guilty for the flash on the street outside. He pieces the story together, Gwen taking a few more minutes to come out of the theater, but a bit quicker than Arthur at stagedoor, giving her just the right amount of time to pass Schmackary's while Merlin gazed at Arthur. 

There is little else of sentimental significance in Arthur's dressing room. A photo frame on the table captures Arthur's first night on Broadway, trapped in the middle of a tight embrace from the rest of the male Les Mis ensemble. Gwaine is there, probably the one who initiated the tackle-esque hug. Lance, whom he recalls being the Marius understudy (due to his too-clean costume) is running in to join, but didn't make it before the photo was taken. Merlin knows this because Merlin took the photo. 

And there's the little bottle of lavender oil in the corner of his table, on the left and close to the mirror. The lid with the dropper isn't screwed on entirely properly, and Merlin takes it upon himself to fix that, even if it means that his hands will smell like lavender for a week.

_-+-_

Usually, the actor who plays Fiyero has a small ensemble track to play at the beginning of the show, meaning another complex costume. 

Arthur hasn't touched an ensemble track in eight years since Les Mis.

_-+-_

That night, Merlin opens his piano lid again as he munches away on a Fluffer Nutter. He is aware of the fact that it is the small hours of the morning, so he presses down the _una corda_ as a compromise to his elderly neighbours. He plays away at the song Arthur was singing that morning, one of his own compositions he vaguely remembers. He doesn't dare sing the vocal line now that he has heard Arthur sing it. It's too high for Merlin, anyway.

He doesn't tell anyone that it sits perfectly in Arthur's range because it was written for Arthur. 

_-+-_

Arthur is a very good Fiyero. 

That's all there is to it, and he deserves the standing ovations he gets every day, sometimes twice. But Merlin doesn't get his standing ovation for dealing with an over-adrenalised Arthur every day, sometimes twice. 

Merlin's first move, especially on two show days, is to get a cookie to Arthur, meaning he has to focus on eating rather than a vocal warm down. Today's cookie of choice is Fluffer Nutter, which engages Arthur long enough with it's icing for Merlin to get to work. He hangs up the recently-fixed jacket while Arthur deals with his leggings and trades them for jeans. The rest of Arthur's Act II costume gets hung up while Arthur is still engaged with the cookie, meaning Merlin can get out before the scales start. He's out of the dressing room and down the hall to Mordred's within the first two notes of a D Major arpeggio.

Mordred is considerably easier to work for. A shier tenor, more accustomed to dialogue than dramatic, sustained high A's, Mordred is polite and respectful, but considerably more boring than Arthur. Mordred is everything a dresser could hope for in an actor, letting Merlin have his space as he whizzes around the dressing room. Though he wastes a lot of energy with Arthur, Merlin finds that the sacrifice he makes manageable, with Mordred's very tolerable workload.

"You're certainly a lot easier to work for than Arthur," Merlin vocalises his thoughts as he goes through Mordred's complex set of hats.   
"I don't particularly imagine myself to be as good in conversation as him," Mordred replies, voice softer, gentler than Arthur's speaking voice.   
_True,_ Merlin thinks.  
"Not true," Merlin says. "At the end of the day, Arthur's still a royal pain in the ass."  
Mordred laughs, polite, as Merlin finishes up with his finale costume.   
"You seem to spend a lot of time around him, though," Mordred points out.  
_True,_ Merlin thinks.  
"Not true," Merlin says. "Well, at least not voluntarily. I've kind of been roped into the whole Pendragon affair, after four Broadway shows. I should get his fathe-" Merlin coughs to hide his mistake, "his agent, to pay me for sticking around him. It's a job in itself."  
Mordred's costumes are a lot simpler, a lot quicker to prepare for tomorrow evening's show. Merlin is back in the hallway, searching for where he left his backpack this time.

_-+-_

He hears the very end of Arthur's vocal warm down, tuning in only because it's different to his regular scales and arpeggios.

Arthur is still singing Merlin's song. 


	5. chocolate diablo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys; comments with concrit would by very appreciated. I'm an inexperienced writer but would like to change that soon :))  
> some more broadway nerd terminology before we start:  
> Bernadette Peters: the actual QUEEN of broadway, though she's 68 now and everyone still worships her. she acts like she's still 21. you know. the one with the boobs  
> Into the Woods: you probably know this one, but it's the show where like every second line is "I wish..."

**chapter four**

Morgana has a tattoo.

“You’ll regret it when you’re older,” Uther scorns, when the sixteen-year-old shows her father the little crescent moon on her shoulder.  
“I don’t think about regret,” Morgana says, “it stops you from living.”  
Uther crosses his arms. “You live under the Pendragon name, and you shall live respectfully under it.”  
“To hell with the Pendragon name,” Morgana says, and leaves.

_-+-_

_schmackary’s, new york city_

“Ten years later to the day,” Morgana says, pulling her shirt sleeve below her shoulder. “Look.”

Everyone knows about the crescent moon, but three small dots have joined the sky on her skin; three minuscule stars crawling across her collarbones and climbing up her neck. They are dark, bold, threatening, against Morgana’s pale skin, marking their territory forever.

“There’s one for each of you,” she continues, trailing a long finger over the moon and to the first star. “This one’s Gwen. The one closest to me, the one I’d reach first if I ever left what I knew. My _première étoile_.”

“Oh, Morgana,” Gwen smiles, “that’s so sweet of you.” And it’s a genuine smile, shining teeth and dimples, like Gwen doesn’t know what she’s worth.

“Merlin, the one in the middle is you. The centrepiece. The one that holds all the other ones together. The one that makes everyone not only a group of stars, but a constellation.”

Merlin wants to comment on how completely cliché the whole situation is, but he can’t help but smile into his Red Velvet (which they now have on Wednesdays!) and lean his elbows on the table.

“And this one is you, Arthur,” Morgana traces her collarbone, an inch up the base of her neck. “The one on my jugular vein, because you could be the death of me, and yet I’d still go without another breath for you.”

“Rude,” Arthur spits, and a crumb of Chocolate Diablo hits the back of Merlin’s hand, “the other two get deep and meaningful explanations, and mine is about death and deception?”  
“Arthur, she just permanently drew your presence onto her skin.”  
“Guinevere, put your dimples away and sympathise with me.”

_-+-_

_the ambassador theatre, new york city_

Sometimes the Gershwin is quiet. Usually, this is because a show has been running so long that the world gets tired of it. But tonight, a new show is premiering down the road, at the Ambassador Theater.

Maybe tonight the Gershwin is quiet; Merlin doesn’t know because he’s not there.

He is outside the Ambassador, watching the cameras flash and the stars shine.

They’ve rolled out a red carpet, press on one side behind a roped barricade, the most distinguished guests from the Broadway community gracing the carpet with their presence.

Gwaine bumps into Merlin’s side.

“Still not famous enough to be on the other side, yet?” Merlin teases.  
“They don’t have enough love for understudies. Only the big names.” Gwaine rocks back and forth on the heels of his polished dress shoes, watching the celebrities and their partners roll onto the carpet and then into the theatre, like a machine churning out stars and depositing them all into the one location.

“Oh my God,” Gwaine jabs Merlin, who is primed to complain, “it’s Bernadette Peters.”  
“Oh my God,” Merlin straightens to his full height, which momentarily surprises Gwaine, “I can see Bernadette Peters with my own two eyes. I can’t believe we’re famous enough to be standing here.”  
“Arthur Pendragon is walking on the same carpet as Bernadette Peters.”  
“The man I clothe in expensive costumes eight times a week is following in Bernadette Peters’s footsteps.”  
“Shit, Merlin,” Gwaine exclaims, a little too loudly, “we’re going to be sitting in the same building as Bernadette Peters for three hours.”  
“I’m not too concerned with sitting in the same building as her,” Merlin breaks in, “I’m concerned with Bernadette Peters at an open-bar after party.”

_-+-_

“I’ve been looking forward to this show for a long time,” Arthur speaks calmly into a microphone, “I’ve heard great things about it.”  
“Of course,” the interviewer sounds too scripted for her own good, Arthur thinks. “And, it’s been much speculated that you know the headline act.”  
“Percival, of course!” And Arthur smiles, the cameras straining to get a glimpse of the grin that could make a nation weak at the knees. “We went to university together. One of the most magnificent tenors I’ve ever heard. Or seen, for that matter,” and Arthur winks towards the cameras, and the interviewer audibly winces, biting her lip.

“Very, very excited!” Gwen gets straight into answering the questions as she walks the red carpet rolled outside the theatre. “I’ve got friends in this show that I haven’t seen perform in years, and I’m pumped to see them again.”  
“Of course. And on your time as Elphaba?”  
Gwen knows that the interviewer is asking the questions that the fans want to hear, so she gives them the answers that the fans want to hear.  
“Best time of my life, honestly,” she lies, “and it’s just a bonus that I get to make out with Arthur Pendragon eight times a week.”   
“Watch your mouth,” Lance smiles and tightens his grip around Gwen’s waist.   
The interviewer laughs.

_-+-_

Morgana is on the opposite side of the rope barricades, heading the press effort.

“Bernadette Peters!” she croons, when the woman in question arrives at her position. “The goddess of Broadway.”

Bernadette laughs. “Morgana Pendragon,” she addresses her interviewer, and Morgana almost faints.  

_-+-_

“Morgana is _talking_ to Bernadette Peters,” Gwaine whimpers, doubling the length of his neck to catch a glimpse of the legend.   
“Why don’t _I_ get to talk to Bernadette Peters?” Merlin joins in, his six-and-a-bit feet helping him get over the crowd.   
“That’s it,” Gwaine crosses his arms, neck returning to a more humanesque length, “I’m quitting acting and going into press. That is, if it means I get to meet Bernadette Peters. Maybe even Patti LuPone. Sondheim.”

Gwaine signs like a soprano.

_-+-_

“You were lying through your teeth, Gwen. I thought Elphaba was your dream come true,” Morgana takes her _première étoile_ by the shoulders in the bathroom, ten minutes before the show is due to start. The marble walls are cold to the touch as she extends one hand to balance herself, rings clicking obtrusively.    
“Elphaba _is_ my dream. I’ve never wanted anything more, that much I’m sure of.”  
“Then what’s holding you back?” Morgana can’t bear to see her star sad, let alone before the opening night of a show that they’ve all been dying to see for the past months. Gwen exhales slowly.  
“I told the press that making out with Arthur Pendragon on stage was a bonus to my job. And I know it’s acting, but it makes me feel bad. You know, Lance,” she trails off, and Morgana rubs her shoulders through the soft velvet of her dress. It’s petty, Gwen knows, but it’s something she cares about more than anything.   
“He had his arm around my waist, and Morgana,” she whispers, afraid of anyone hearing, “it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world, feeling protected.”   
Morgana lets Gwen take her time.  
“And I really, really, care about Lance. A lot.”  
“I know.”  
“And I know that he really cares about me.”  
“I know.”  
“And I’ve loved him for two years, Morgana, but I’ve only been allowed to love him for the past month. It feels so dangerous, every word I say.”  
She sounds desperate, pleading. Morgana is quiet.  
“But the world wants me to be in love with Arthur,” Gwen utters, “they always want Elphaba to end up with Fiyero, want Rose to end up with Jack, want the queen and the king together, but what if the queen loves somebody else? What if the queen loves someone more unassuming than the king? What if the queen loves one of his knights?”   
“A loyal knight is as good as any king,” Morgana testifies.  
It is Gwen’s turn to breathe a soft, “I know,” before settling into a comfortable silence. Her breathing is heavy, and she paces, _largo_ , around the available perimeter of the bathroom, almost circling Morgana. Morgana doesn’t move, save her head, which follows Gwen. And they are both still again, breathing and blinking and the quick twitch of a hand to fix a strand of hair the only movement to disrupt the stillness.

  
“And Merlin,” Gwen blurts out, “has to watch it every single show,” She suddenly remembering the shadow of the dresser’s face peering out from the clouds of machine-made fog cutting the stage off from the wings. She could see those eyes from a mile away.  
Morgana frowns. She can see Merlin’s eyes, too.   


“I want you to enjoy tonight,” she finally says. “We’ve all been waiting for this show for a long time.” She smiles, and it’s a sad smile, lips barely curving.

But Morgana is a cryptic spirit who never backs down.

“And the after party,” she winks, leading Gwen out of the bathroom and into the theatre.   

 

_-+-_

Arthur isn’t wearing his suit jacket at the after party, and Merlin doesn’t know where that tie went. Arthur’s top two buttons are undone, and his collarbones are jutting out ever so slightly, enticing, from under the crisp white dress shirt.

Merlin is sitting on a bar stool, vaguely aware of the fact that he is three chairs away from Bernadette Peters, also vaguely aware of the fact that he is barely sober enough to string a set of words together in a coherent sentence.

Honestly, with the amount of alcohol he’s watched Bernadette down in the past three hours, he’s not sure she can, either.

It’s a Thursday evening, and Merlin notes that the predicament he is currently in is very different from his usual Schmackary’s situation. They still have Chocolate Diablos on Thursday now, and Merlin is pretty sure that such a cookie would perfectly compliment the contents of the glass he holds in his right hand.

And Merlin laughs.

This is his life. Too afraid to become a freelance composer, he became a dresser, lacing sequins and beads onto coats and tulle dresses worth more than his entire life. He makes enough to own a relatively decent apartment in New York City, and support his cookie binge-eating lifestyle. And he dresses an actor famous enough for him to have made it into a party with Bernadette Peters sitting three feet away from him.

“Bernadette Peters is three feet away from you,” Gwaine says.  
“I know,” Merlin says.  
“Who is three feet away from me?” Bernadette slurs, and Merlin and Gwaine freeze.

“Merlin Emrys,” Merlin finally manages to move his mouth enough to get his name out of him.  
“I’m Bernadette Peters, the Goddess of Broadway.”  
“I know,” Merlin swallows, unsure of what else to say.  
“And your business here is?” Bernadette is leaning an elbow backwards on the bar. Gwaine looks at her a little uncomfortably. For a woman of sixty eight, said to be past her prime (by people who couldn’t name the city that Broadway was in,) Bernadette had the soul of someone a quarter her age.  
“I’m a dresser,” Merlin says, a little underwhelming, “for Arthur Pendragon, the most recent Fiyero.”  
Bernadette is silent, and Merlin is afraid that he fucked up. But then Bernadette smiles, and all is right with the world.

“Ah, Arthur Pendragon. He’s related to that press chick? That Morgana one?”  
“Yes,” Merlin cackles rather unattractively, “they’re siblings.” This will be a story he tells Arthur, later, when he can say more than ten syllables at a time without feeling like he needs to throw up.   
“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she,” Bernadette says, looking like she’s unaware that she’s meant to be speaking to Merlin.  
“Mhm,” Merlin muses into his glass.  
“Oh!” Bernadette exclaims, looking very proud of herself. “You’re gay, aren’t you!”  
“Yes, very gay.” Merlin confirms.  
“Gay, gay, gay.”  
“You got it. Gay.”  
“Gaaaaaaaay.”  
“Gay, that’s the one.”  
“Gay, of course, I work on Broadway,” Bernadette gawps, feigning surprise, “there’s so many queers here it’s basically a human rights march.”  
Merlin snorts. Bernadette is turning out to be as good as Merlin only had the pleasure of imagining prior to this conversation.   
“So I’m imagining you’ve got the hots for the Pendragon kid,” she carries on. “The male one, with the ass,” she goes to clarify, but Merlin was already nodding.   
“I don’t blame you, if I were thirty-five years younger and not married and divorced more times than I can count on one hand, I would’ve snatched that fine ass up before you could riff on _Fiyero_.”  
“I wish,” Merlin mutters.  
“You _really_ don’t want to say those two words to a woman whose career only exists because of _Into the Woods._ ”  
“Amateur mistake,” Merlin quickly corrects himself. He still doesn’t believe he’s talking to Bernadette Peters about Arthur’s ass.

 


	6. chunky monkey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> broadway term time!!
> 
> broadway.com: broadway news website  
> playbill.com: another broadway news website  
> Paul Wontorek: probably the most popular reviewer/interviewer/reporter in the broadway community; is friends with every single famous performer and sees every single show its not fair  
> Laura Osnes: an actual real life disney princess, an angel of a human who we are so lucky to know. most gorgeous voice ever, a complete and utter pure cinnamon roll 100%

**chapter five**

Merlin has never seen Arthur wear a three piece suit.

He could go on and on about how impractical it is, how the additional waistcoat detracts from the purpose of his pale blue shirt. Such is the life of a Broadway dresser. But it’s true; Arthur looks good in a three piece suit.

Merlin could write a thesis on such a topic, and when prompted to state his position on the topic, Merlin would say, “Arthur Pendragon looks good in a three piece suit.” His arguments might sound something like; “firstly, the addition of a waistcoat to a regular suit pulls Arthur’s dress shirt down half an inch, exposing his collarbones,” “secondly, it loosens his suit jacket in the slightest, letting Arthur’s broad shoulders assume more dominance over his frame,” and, “finally, Arthur Pendragon and a three piece suit go together like lemon and lime, creation and destruction, like ~~Arthur and Merlin~~ two sides of the same coin.”

In conclusion, Merlin would say, “Arthur Pendragon, Broadway extraordinaire and fine piece of ass should wear a three piece suit more often.”

Instead, Merlin says, “it suits you,” and laughs for a good thirty minutes after.

_-+-_

_broadway.com headquarters_

“Pendragon!” Paul Wontorek grins widely, extending a hand, “I haven’t seen you in ages. We good for our interview today?”  
Arthur takes Paul’s hand and shakes it. “A hundred percent,” he smiles. Arthur is good at the game.

The interview room looks a lot bigger through the lens of a camera. It’s lined with pleated curtains, a soft French Lilac colour. Two chairs take up most of the floor space, a small wooden table between them. The table is host to two tall, black mugs, bursting with the red _broadway.com_ logo.  
“Just water, as per usual,” Paul says as he takes his own.  
“Of course,” Arthur nods as he sits down. Caffeine is practically banned in his life, for the benefit of his precious vocal chords. He’s used to it; theatre makes him awake enough.

_-+-_

“Recounting your _Wicked_ debut,” Paul says, lounging in one of the wide blue armchairs, on a calculated angle from the camera, “tell me about how it felt. I know a lot of people out there who would do anything to be in that show.”

Opening nights have always been important to Arthur. He can remember every detail of every opening night he’s ever experienced, some moments more so than others, but they stick with him wherever he goes. Opening nights, he knows, are special; you don’t get a lot of them no matter how lucky or talented or successful you are. Opening nights are the first chapter of a novel, the first tickle of light over the horizon in the morning, the shot of a gun in the air to start a sprint. Arthur loves them, linking them together through common characteristics. The rush of adrenalin when the conductor raises his baton, surrounded by nothing but complete silence. The tightness in his chest until the second that baton came diving down. The costumes, as fresh and new as they’ll ever be. Merlin.

“My first show as Fiyero was a Saturday evening,” he says, cautious but elegant. “I remember watching an usher putting new playbills out on the seats. The ones with that new design. And I remember thinking that this was something that I would never experience again.” He fiddles a little with the tall _broadway.com_ branded mug resting in his hands. “And sharing that night with so many of my closest friends, was obviously something so important to me.”

Paul is a little giddy inside at how perfect the ending to Arthur’s answer is. It always gets him a little excited when the interviewee gives him a perfect Segway.

“Speaking of your closest friends,” Paul contains himself, “let’s talk about them for a minute. How are they going? Let’s start with, say, Guinevere.”

“Gwen is a little pocket rocket,” Arthur grins, completely honest, “she’s amazing. I’ve never heard someone with such a good mix. Phenomenal. Tiny, but phenomenal.”  
“How small is she, exactly?” Paul asks, and Arthur stands. The man behind the camera scowls, zooming out to accommodate Arthur’s full six feet and two inches. Arthur hovers a hand a little underneath his collarbones.  
“Five foot four,” Arthur estimates, wiggling his hand about before sitting back down. The camera man huffs again.  
“That’s not short!” a voice calls from behind the cameras, and Arthur and Paul’s heads flick around at the dulcet sound.  
“Thank you, Laura Osnes,” Paul smiles brightly, camera swivelling smoothly to find Broadway’s resident Disney Princess, presumably waiting for her interview. “Actually, come here, Laura,” Paul beckons the petite soprano over, “you know Arthur. Of course you know Arthur, you did a show together. _A Connecticut Yankee_ , wasn’t it.”  
“Just the one,” Laura beams as she comes in shot, and Arthur shifts a little so that she can sit between him and Paul, on the wide arm of his plush chair.  
“Laura Osnes, ladies and gentlemen” Paul does his job, “Broadway’s resident Cinderella, Sandy, Hope Harcourt.”  
“And Alice, Demoiselle Alisande,” Arthur adds.  
Laura innocently slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “Thank you, Martin.”  
“Just in time to talk about Arthur and his friends,” Paul fills Laura in, who crosses one leg over another.  
“Ooh,” her pale peach dress floats over her knees with the movement, “I’m an expert on the Pendragon Crew.”  
“Self-acclaimed,” Arthur adds, and Laura giggles, her wedding ring clicking gently against Arthur’s cufflinks.  
Arthur is satisfied in the fact that her wedding ring is so glamorous; someone unknowledgeable watching the interview might very well think that they were in some way, shape or form together; Arthur subtly brings his own (very bare) left hand up to the armrest to prove that it was not he Laura was wed to.  
“Where were we,” Paul looks at his sheet of notes, “Guinevere –“  
“Who is by _no_ means short,”  
“Thank you, Laura –“  
“Just because you are a _literal giant,_ Pendragon –“  
“From Guinevere,” Paul clears his throat, “to her other half. Lancelot du Lac.”  
Arthur doesn’t need to think about what path he’ll take. He’s just completely honest in saying, “Lancelot and Gwen were made from each other.”  
“Like their atoms were forged in the same star, at the beginning of time,” Laura adds, and Arthur nods.  
“Poetic, and true,” he says, looking up at his once co-star. “Otherwise, Lance is a completely amazing performer, in all aspects. You _really_ don’t want to come up against him in a fight scene. It’s like he was born with a sword in hand.”  
“Gwaine Lothian,” Paul continues.  
“If I weren’t happily married,” Laura makes a noise that probably shouldn’t be published on international media, and Arthur almost chokes on his water.  
“ _Laura Osnes,_ ” he puts his mug down, only able to stare wide-eyed at her.  
“Hi, Nathan,” Laura waves sweetly into the camera, fingers fluttering as she addresses her husband.  
“I’m sure Nathan’s fine with it,” Paul interjects, “honestly, a lot of us in this room would jump at the chance.”  
The camera man nods in agreement.  
“Another Pendragon, Uth-“ Paul starts, and upon seeing Arthur’s head shake firmly, Paul changes mid-word, to “Morgana.”  
_That’ll have to be edited out,_ Paul notes.

“Morgana! I love her,” Laura sighs dramatically. “She’s an angel walking among mere mortals. The root of all happiness.”  
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Arthur rolls his eyes, “sisters can be very…”  
“Demanding?”  
“Arduous,” Arthur decides on a word, and it is Laura’s turn to roll her eyes.  
“Morgana Pendragon is a complete cinnamon roll –“  
“Who could actually kill you,” Paul interrupts, very proud of his pop culture reference.

It’s like Arthur and Laura are in a competition to see who can roll their eyes the most in the space of one interview. Arthur thinks they must be tied at this point.

“And finally, the one the public probably knows the least about,” Paul looks down at his page, “your dresser, Merlin Emrys.”

Laura looks expectantly down at Arthur. “I remember Merlin,” she says, to start off, “I remember him very well, but this is your one to talk about, Arthur.”  
“I’ve been friends with Merlin for a very long time,” Arthur looks past Paul, and past the camera too. “I met him during Les Mis. He was my dresser, as well as half of the rest of the male ensemble. Not an easy thing to do, I profess.”  
“A little off topic.”  
Arthur scrunches his mouth up a little. “Merlin Emrys is a complete idiot,” he says, “but he gets me cookies after two-show days, so I guess he’s okay.”  
“Anything else to say?” Laura pushes it. She knows more than she lets on.  
“’Bout it,” Arthur says promptly, finally putting his mug back on the table. “Oh, and he was very confused this morning, as to why I chose to wear a three-piece suit to a semi-formal interview.”  
“Hmm,” Laura turns her head to take in Arthur’s clothing choice. “I can see where he’s coming from. He’s a _dresser,_ Arthur, I think he knows what he’s talking about.”  
Arthur makes an undignified noise under his breath.  
“He’s not _that_ bad,” Laura toys with her ring, “pretty good when you think about him, actually. He’s subtle in that way, Merlin. You don’t notice him at first, but when you’ve been around him long enough, he has a way of bleeding into your life. Twisting into the things you do every day, intertwining his habits into your routine. And when you take a step back, you finally realise how different your life would be without him. Merlin Emrys is a force to be reckoned with.”  
Arthur regains his feet very quickly, looking straight into the camera. “Merlin, when you watch this, you owe me Caramel Apple Crisps.”  
“Cookies,” Paul says, “how romantic.”

_-+-_

_playbill.com press studio, manhattan_

Morgana watches the interview on her laptop.

Laura Osnes is an angel, she concludes, after the sixteen minute mark. She’d have to thank the princess in person sometime.

“The Pendragon interview,” a rough, raspy voice suddenly comes from behind Morgana’s shoulder, and she stiffens. “Barely uploaded twenty minutes ago, and you’re already onto it.” The Voice is a little condescending, and Morgana believes herself to be rather good at her job.

Morgana doesn’t recognise The Voice. She turns around slowly on her swivel chair to meet the face belonging to it, meeting a pair of piercingly pure eyes she also doesn’t recognise. At least, she is sure she would remember eyes like those.

“Ah,” Emerald Eyes says, gazing cuttingly towards her, “that explains it. The other Pendragon. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Morgana.”

Morgana, for the first time in her life, is a little struck by the strange curse of ineloquence. Maybe it’s the dark, flowing hair, cascading gently over his forehead. Maybe it’s the slight traces of stubble climbing up his sharp jawline. Maybe it’s the glowing, crystalline eyes that Morgana would promptly write an entire series of essays about if asked what her kryptonite was.

“Your works make you seem much more eloquent than you apparently are,” Emerald Eyes smirks, too confident for his own good, and it almost makes Morgana weak at the knees. But she’s too strong for that. She’s also sitting down.

“I suggest that you rework that statement,” she purses her lips, “any journalist looking for success on Broadway should carefully consider each and every one of their words.”

She extends her hand, movement sharp, long fingers leading to dark fingernails. Emerald Eyes accepts it, contrastingly slowly, each millimetre of his movement careful and painfully calculated. He is fascinating in the way that he never breaks eye contact, jaw slightly raised, asserting his dominance. He is engrossing, inviting, rapturous; but Morgana is not one to back down from any challenge.

“You obviously know your Pendragons,” Morgana says. “But I didn’t get your name.”  
“You’ll need to be a better interviewer than that,” Emerald Eyes says, alluring, and walks away.

_-+-_

“It’s like he didn’t even know that I was a _senior reporter,_ ” Morgana actually _whines,_ and buries her head in her arms. This surprising change of character has Gwen worried, but just makes Merlin laugh.  
“Morgana gets belittled by a new _reviewer_ ,” Merlin bites roughly into his Chunky Monkey (Tuesdays are now upsettingly absent of Red Velvets, Merlin had earlier lamented) and hoots, “and promptly starts to fall in love with him.”  
“But if _you_ had seen those eyes, your gay ass would’ve been head over heels in the blink of an eye.” Morgana snaps her fingers to prove her point.  
“Probably true,” Merlin says, scrunching up the paper bags on the table and launching them towards the bin at the side of the café.

He misses.

_-+-_

After the show, Merlin leaves early.

Arthur finds a paper bag on his dressing room table. Two Caramel Apple Crisps.

 

 

_-+-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your comments -- they make my day to see, honestly!


	7. lemon poppy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more broadway terms? i think so:
> 
> cinderella: literally the story of cinderella but a musical  
> prince topher: prince charming  
> marie: fairy godmother  
> next to normal: (watch this show please) show about mental health where woman has to deal with her family falling apart and dead son  
> gabe: the dead son  
> miss saigon: viet war and american soldiers, talk shit get hit/laid  
> chris: american soldier who talks shit and gets hit and laid and a son  
> ARTEMIS: lmao a musical i'm writing; think greet mythology x 1940's britain archery championships  
> the phantom of the opera: literalyl google it  
> raoul: sik bachelor  
> into the woods: i might've done this before but think cinderella x little red riding hood x rapunzel x jack and the beanstalk are linked together by a witch and a baker and his wife  
> the bakers wife: the bakers wife. wants a bby. dies  
> west side story: romeo and juliet but modern and in america and about racism basically  
> maria: puerto rican girl. white kid falls in love with her. well shit  
> the wizard of oz: come on  
> dorothy: somewhere over the rainbow chick  
> oliver!: poor kids want food  
> nancy: poor woman falls in love with shit man  
> grease: summer lovin had me a blast (thats it)  
> danny: greaser with good hair once aaron tveit played him thats all i care about  
> sandy: blonde. long skirts. high voice. hates red lipstick but turns sexy for danny ?????  
> once: VERY CUTE and emotional two person show with very sad songs oh man  
> guy: a guy  
> girl: a girl (creative)  
> mamma mia!: you know  
> sky: hot guy in mamma mia!, nothing to do with the sky. why is he called sky  
> little shop of horrors: little shop (little shop of horrors!) little shop (little shop of horrors!) *finger snapping*  
> seymour: bad glasses. has plant (google it)  
> funny girl: dont RAIN on MY paRAAAADE (barbra streisand is my queen)  
> nick arnstein: fanny brice (played most notably by barbra streisand, my queen) marries him  
> anything goes!: its a tap musical about boats and marriage  
> hope harcourt: "it's hard to love when there is no hope. love, hope."  
> songs for a new world: I SAW THIS THE OTHER NIGHT its gorgeous if you watch a show watch this one please (it's actually a song cycle but WHO CARES)  
> the last five years: ACTUALLY WATCH THIS ONE (the movie w/ jeremy jordan and anna kendrick kills me)  
> jamie: an absolute dick of a person but hes hot and sings high notes oh my god  
> Gigi: its very very french and it was on broadway recently and vanessa hudgens played gigi thats it  
> hairspray: show about racial segregation, cross dressing, and also hairspray  
> link: zac efron played him thats all you need to know  
> les miserables: literally why do u need to ask  
> enjolras: hot piece of revolutionary ass  
> rent: september 21st 9pm eastern standard time we are rotting in the garbage town. diversity and aids and crying  
> roger: guy arguably post-emo stage. tattoos and dark fingernails and a guitar  
> 13 the musical: a musical about 13 year olds  
> Jason Robert Brown: jesus  
> actually jason robert brown: a really really fuckin talented composer, wrote the last five years, 13 the musical, songs for a new world, alternately titled you're gonna fucking cry 
> 
> i think thats it; i don't know why i even bother typing all of this out because it's absolutely useless?? i guess it's for if an actual broadway fan happens to stumble across this literal merlin fic and gets a laugh out of my really bad summaries (because ngl i laughed as i typed it)  
> also musical recs if you're looking ;)

**chapter six**

Uther once tried to make Arthur train as a baritone.

“You can sing some decent low notes on occasion,” Uther had said, “and baritones are in higher demand than tenors.”  
“I’m a _tenor_ ,” Arthur had argued, “and I suit stereotypical tenor roles. Enjolras. Apollo. Raoul. Chris. Link.”  
“You can be a proper tenor once you’ve landed Fiyero,” Uther crossed his arms. Arthur hates how his father had always doubted him, making him question if he was ever fit enough to survive in the ruthless industry.

Now, Arthur doesn’t dare go back to him to rub it in. He gets his proper tenor roles now.

_-+-_

Merlin is composing again, the lid of his piano littered with a mixture of Red Velvet and White Island crumbs. He has the sound of a song in his head; a ballad, a duet between soprano and tenor.

The problem is, he can’t get the notes from his head, to his fingers, to the manuscript. He tinkles a few high notes on black keys in frustration, leaning back. He has half an hour before he has to leave to meet call time, he notices. Merlin has been surprisingly not-late these past few weeks, and it’s been a shock to himself as much as it has been to everyone around him.

His phone buzzes from the lid of his piano, and Merlin finally resigns to the lures of technology. The offending notification alerts him to a message from Gwen, which reads simply an Instagram handle and a lurid emoji.

_-+-_

There are flowers on Morgana’s desk.

This is strange, even for someone like Morgana, and the red carnations and balsam take her a little by surprise.

Red carnations. _I must see you soon._ Balsam. _Impatience._

She looks around for someone whom she thinks might be as fluent in the Victorian language of flowers as she, and her eyes settle in the corner of the room.

Of course Emerald Eyes knows.

_-+-_

“It’s his damn _eyes,_ Arthur, his _eyes._ ” And Morgana is pacing the hallways of the Gershwin, before finally settling at the open door of Arthur’s dressing room before a matinee. Merlin doesn’t even know how she got in; security at the stagedoor is tight and Morgana’s name isn’t on any lists.  
(“Pendragon,” Merlin imagines her promptly saying to the security guard at the door, who would’ve let her in without a second glance.)  
“We get it, Morgana, you’re infatuated with this mysterious intern or whatnot,” Arthur is clearly paying more attention to his hair than his sister. Merlin doesn’t blame him.  
“They’re like crystals. Like reflective aventurine, with the mica and the feldspar and everything.”  
“I understand one word that you just said in that sentence,” Merlin says apologetically as he rushes from one side of the room to the other, assembling fragments of various costumes on new racks.  
“And his jawline!” Morgana exhales, frustrated. “Jesus Christ, I could touch that jawline for a second hand have to keep my arm in a sling for a week. And that watch he always wears. The golden one that compliments his olive skin so well he could’ve overthrown the entire Roman Empire. _And_ he’s fluent in the Victorian language of flowers!”  
“Flower speak,” Merlin chimes, “of course.”

Arthur stiffens suddenly, his hair sticking up, half gelled. Merlin raises an eyebrow, confused.

“I’m going to Gwen,” Morgana folds her arms, “you two are useless.”

Merlin closes the door as soon as Morgana is out of earshot.  
“Care to explain?” he leans against the closed door, glossy paint reflecting the bright lights of the dressing room.  
“I know _exactly_ who Morgana is talking about, golden watch, olive skin, stupid Victorian flower language. I didn’t know at first,” Arthur’s voice is soft and low, as if he is worried that someone will hear him, “when my only clues were green eyes and good jawline. But this narrows it down to one man, and I know exactly who he is.” He sounds scared, strangely submissive, and Merlin decides that this change doesn’t suit Arthur very well.  
“We went to university together,” Arthur finally says, almost inaudibly, and Merlin decides not to push it.

_-+-_

The second act falls apart.

_-+-_

It starts fine, with one of Mordred’s changes that is rather complex, but one that Merlin has down to a fine art and is rather proud of. It takes only twenty-six seconds, in which a new pair of trousers have to come on (feet pointed so shoes can stay on,) a shirt (re-tucked,) a new jacket (buttoned up) and another absurd hat to be perched (and pinned) atop Mordred’s curls. Merlin is a vision to behold during these twenty-six seconds, swirling hands and flying hangers, praying that they won’t run into anyone on their passage to the ground. And Mordred goes running back onto the stage, leaving Merlin secluded in the darkness of the wings.

Merlin is a good dresser. He gets his job done smoothly and absurdly gracefully for someone with his clumsy arms.

After this, Merlin has to get to the other side of the stage in under a minute. It sounds easy, and he knows that Gwen has to complete the run in a minute and a half, though she is about as tall as Merlin’s legs alone, and she has to do it in full costume; the gorgeous thirty-pound dress swishing around her ankles, trying not to trip on her kitten heels. Yet the backstage corridors of the Gershwin are rather unfortunately not soundproofed, and the sounds induced by Merlin’s disgruntled sprinting are not entirely complimentary to the fragile, heartbreaking scene Morgause has to get through on stage.

And Merlin always gets the run down, with a good twenty seconds to spare, which he uses to tug Arthur’s next jacket and belt off of the racks on this side of the stage. It starts with Merlin holding Arthur’s jacket half an inch too high.

The jacket is there, sleeves straightened, just waiting for Arthur’s arms to fly straight in, get buttoned, and go. But Merlin’s tardiness for a single second has caused Arthur to fling out his arms in vain a second time, in an attempt to get his arms into the jacket sleeves. This costs them valuable time, meaning that Arthur doesn’t have time to change over his belt. It’s a small thing that nobody except Merlin and Arthur will ever notice, but Arthur will _notice._ Merlin knows that Arthur can’t yell at him because of the possibility that his mic is still on, but he’s hit with a glare and a scowl instead, and it’s just as bad. It’s as if Merlin knows he has failed, over a mistake as small as him holding a jacket half an inch too high.

The audience doesn’t know, but Merlin can see the light reflecting off of the gold buckle on Arthur’s belt, clashing disastrously with the silver ornaments on the rest of his new costume. He can see Arthur fidgeting for a split second – which he _never_ does – and Merlin knows that his Fiyero is compromising his artistic performance because he is _wearing the wrong belt._ And it’s Merlin’s fault.

He winces as the light comes too brightly off of the golden metal, the flash of light in his eyes almost a warning of the punishment that is to come.

Arthur stays in that costume until the end of the show. He bows. Morgause and Guinevere come out of the two doors in the set, and they bow. Everyone on stage bows again and everyone not on stage claps like they’ve never clapped before. Merlin has never bowed in front of more than two people. Arthur gets a thousand, nine hundred, and thirty-three people every single show. Almost fifteen and a half thousand people a week. Merlin resigns himself to putting hangers quietly back on racks as the actors start to file off stage and into the wings, cursing himself when one piece of wire clangs ever so slightly against the silver racks.

_-+-_

“Arthur said he went to university with your Emerald Eyes,” Merlin says, over a Lemon Poppy. (Gwen had felt like Red Velvet today, and they had an unspoken pact that none of their friends would ever double up on cookie flavours in one visit.)  
“ _I_ went to Arthur’s university,” Morgana grunts, _grunts,_ “and if he’s studied any form of journalism or media, he would’ve been in my department, and I would’ve at least _seen_ him on occasion.”  
“Maybe he wasn’t in your department, then,” Gwen says quietly, over her (traitorous) Red Velvet. “Maybe he studied something else.”  
“If Arthur knows him, maybe he was a performer,” Merlin offers.  
“I would know him too, then, and Morgana’s very, _very_ detailed descriptions aren’t ringing any bells,” Gwen shrugs her shoulders. Merlin remembers that she trained at the same university as Arthur, same year, same degree.  
“His voice was too rough, too raspy, for theatre,” Morgana rules the option out with an exasperated sigh, irritated that her plan isn’t taking off from the drawing board. “You and your damn gay ass, Merlin, if you had been there –“  
“Stop calling my _ass_ gay! It’s not like every other part of me isn’t.”  
“Merlin, every second ass on Broadway is gay, don’t start thinking that you’re special. You’ll get a more severe superiority complex than you already have.”  


_-+-_

Arthur still has his yearbooks from junior and senior year of university. He takes the former down off the back of a shelf, flicking furiously to find a certain page.

He finds himself, hair embarrassingly styled, in an exceptionally stereotypical school photo format. It’s just as well that he is alone in his studio-apartment, venetian blinds drawn shut. These yearbooks haven’t seen the light of day since he graduated.

The book is organised by degree, first and foremost, then class group, then alphabetical order. Page 288 is what he is looking for, using his finger to move to the column closest to the spine, two people down.

 ** _ARTHUR PENDRAGON: JUNIOR CLASS_**  
Son of Uther Pendragon (Pendragon Agencies)  
Bachelor of Performing Arts: Musical Theatre (Tenor)  
School credits include: Cinderella (Prince Topher) Next to Normal (Gabe u/s) Miss Saigon (Chris) ARTEMIS (Apollo) The Phantom of the Opera (Raoul)  
Quote: “

The quote is scratched out after the first lot of quotation marks, probably because Arthur found the quote too embarrassing for his own good the minute he saw it printed.

He flips back a few pages, searching. He finds a good few of his friends during his hunt, and he takes the time to pause and read their credentials, a welcome distraction from his goal.

 **** _GUINEVERE THOMAS: JUNIOR CLASS_  
_Bachelor of Performing Arts: Musical Theatre (Mezzo-Soprano)_  
School credits include: Cinderella (Marie) Into the Woods (The Baker’s Wife) West Side Story (Maria) The Wizard of Oz (Dorothy) Oliver! (Nancy)  
Quote: “Don’t ever change. Not for anyone.”

Arthur remembers watching her in _The Wizard of Oz,_ one of her more soprano roles. He remembers seeing her hair in two quaint plaits for the first time, laughing at the fact that it made her look ten years younger. He remembers the blue and white checked pinafore dress, bathed in the lights of the Emerald City. He remembers her, on closing night, saying, “someday, I’ll play Dorothy on Broadway.”

She got to Broadway. She just plays the Wicked Witch of the West.

 **** _PERCIVAL DINDRANE: JUNIOR CLASS_  
_Bachelor of Performing Arts: Musical Theatre (Tenor)_  
School credits include: Grease (Danny) Once (Guy) Mamma Mia! (Sky) Little Shop of Horrors (Seymour) Funny Girl (Nick Arnstein)  
Quote: “Your enemies are my enemies. Unless they’re hotter than you.”

Nobody forgets the time that Percival played Danny. The time that he riffed the hell of out _Sandy,_ never breaking character or accent or focused, and left the entire audience rattled when he belted a high-C and held it for at least half a minute. Nobody forgets the silence at the end of the song. Nobody forgets the good minute of applause Percival was rewarded with right then and right there, in the middle of the show.

 **** _MORGAUSE BELISENT: SENIOR CLASS_  
_Master of Performing Arts: Musical Theatre (Soprano)_  
School credits include: Anything Goes! (Hope Harcourt) Songs For A New World (Woman 1) The Last Five Years (Cathy) Once (Girl) Grease (Sandy)  
Quote: “If you poison one of my own, you will taste your poison on your own tongue.”

Arthur doesn’t remember as much of Morgause as he does his other friends. But he certainly knows her now; starring opposite her in _Wicked_ eight times a week. He knows her by her shimmering blonde hair, the rule she has about changing the colours of her fingernails on a schedule from pink to sky blue to lemon yellow to pastel green on a strict four day basis, rotating through the colours of her costumes. He also is very thankful that he knows her because of the towering glass container of sour patch kids that she keeps in her dressing room, filled to the brim at all times.

He makes the effort to flip forwards half the book, finally out of the performance degrees. He goes past design, management, direction, before he finds media. Before he finds Morgana.

 **** _MORGANA PENDRAGON: JUNIOR CLASS_  
_Daughter of Uther Pendragon (Pendragon Agencies)_  
Masters of Media: Journalism, Interview and Review.  
_Quote: “Sometimes you’ve got to do what you think is right, and damn the consequences.”_

Arthur recalls Morgana being ticked off at the fact that her degree didn’t give her a credits section under her name.  
“But I do just as much work,” she had complained, in the back seat of his car as he drove out of the big city. “Just because I don’t have a headshot and drive my siblings crazy learning lines every day.”  
“I do _not_ drive you crazy,” Arthur rebuts, “I am _exceptionally considerate_ with the amount of noise I make with my lines.”  
“Arthur,” she had cooed, “you’re a tenor. A belting tenor. I should get you one of those beltboxes for your birthday.”  
“Not the one that looks like a muzzle.”  
“Oh, yes. The very one.”

Morgana had gotten a proper headshot the day they had gotten back to New York, after visiting Uther’s Los Angeles branch.

Arthur resigns from looking at the credentials of his friends, turning the bulk of pages back into the midst of the performance section. He spots the name he’s looking for, three people down, left column on page 121.

 ** _ACCOLON GAUL: JUNIOR CLASS_** __  
Bachelor of Performing Arts: Musical Theatre (Tenor)  
School credits include: Gigi (Gaston) Next to Normal (Henry) Anything Goes! (Billy Crocker) ARTEMIS (Orion) The Phantom of the Opera (Erik)  
  


There is no quote. No scratch marks. Just the one person with a headshot instead of a school photo plagued with a dappled blue background.

Arthur returns the yearbook to the shelf, pulling out the one next to it instead. Page 287, this time, accommodating for the 14 people who dropped out of the university in the span of a year. Middle column, top person.

 

 ** _ARTHUR PENDRAGON: SENIOR CLASS_**  
Son of Uther Pendragon (Pendragon Agencies)  
Bachelor of Performing Arts: Musical Theatre (Tenor)  
Additional (senior) school credits include: Hairspray (Link) The Last Five Years (Jamie) Songs For A New World (Man 1) Les Miserables (Enjolras) Rent (Roger)

He doesn’t want to turn to the page that his fingers are already searching to find. It’s a good hundred and a few pages away from where it was last time, and Arthur hates that fact.

 ** _ACCOLON GAUL: SENIOR CLASS_** __  
Bachelor of Performing Arts: Direction  
School credits include: Hairspray, The Last Five Years, Songs For A New World, 13 The Musical, Rent.

He must have a thing for Jason Robert Brown shows. But who doesn’t.

It’s the same headshot as the year before. Actors update their headshots every six months. For Arthur, it’s every four. The same headshot with the blank grey background, with the strong unsaturated filter, but with the same emerald green eyes.

Arthur picks up the two yearbooks and rips them in half, dropping them into the bin.

_-+-_

“Accolon Gaul,” Morgana says.

A head turns around in the corner. Score.

“Well done, Morgana Pendragon,” Accolon rewards her efforts. Emerald Eyes has a name, now, but Morgana knows barely anything else, other than the fact that;  
“You went to university with my brother.”  
“I did,” Accolon verifies her claim, but it turns him cold and he turns away.

_-+-_

“Accolon has something against Arthur,” Morgana concludes, laying down her claim like a detective on a mission. Gwen, Merlin, and the “special guest” they find in Gwaine look like attentive students, strangely perked in Schmackary’s against the corner of the café.  
“Something that happened at university, I’m assuming,” Merlin adds. “Arthur turned cold when I brought it up, too. I didn’t try to force anything out of him.”  
“Good. I’ll do the forcing, then,” Morgana smiles, tapping her expensive rings against the marble table.  
“Not sure that’s a great idea,” Merlin is back to the Lemon Poppy trend, mumbling through the crumbs. He’s not particularly in the mood to stand up to Morgana, and he’s also pretty sure that she is not in the moon to be stood up to by him.  
“Thank you, Merlin, but this is something I am going to embark on without your input.”  
“You barely know this guy yet,” Gwaine interjects before things get messy, “maybe you should get him on the radar before you go and rip your brother’s head off.”

Morgana actually pauses. Gwaine seizes the opportunity.

“I mean, I’m not really one to talk, but I _do_ have relative experience in terms of romance.”  
“I’m actually considering your advice for once, Gwaine,” Morgana resumes her habit of finger-tapping, and takes her time to ponder. “Arthur keeps his head on for another day, then.”

_-+-_

_The Sky Deck. 7:30 tonight. At the door._

The note is laid very carefully, Accolon notices, on his keyboard, parallel to every sharp line of his laptop. The handwriting is the complete opposite; slanted forward, loopy, a fast yet beautiful cursive. He looks around, even though he is well aware of the fact that the office officially closed five minutes ago, though every other employee was out of the place half an hour before that. The lights are all off, save the one just above his small corner desk on the far wall.

“Morgana Pendragon,” he says under his breath, “you are one cunning princess.”

_-+-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please, if you are also a broadway nerd, hmu.
> 
>  
> 
> tumblr: lesmis.co.vu  
> insta: @onedaaemore  
> ;)
> 
> oh my GOD those notes at the start were so long i got carried away forgive me father for i have sinned


	8. cranberry dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one broadway piece of trivia after the entire novel last time:  
> elphaba (who gwen plays) is the green chick in wicked. obviously, gwen does not have green skin, so they go through a process of 'greenifying' elphaba before every show, which involves the actress covering her entire face and neck and hands in green paint and powder before her other makeup goes on. however, this greenifying makeup is never perfect and has a habit of coming off (especially the hand makeup) when the elphaba grips onto something too tightly.

**chapter seven / cranberry dream**

Morgana knows that dreams don’t come true.

“I’m going to be a famous soprano, dad,” she whirls around the room, long hair flying, “and I’m going to play every soprano role known to man. Christine Daae. Cosette. Hope Harcourt. I’m going to star in musicals they haven’t even written yet. They’re going to write musicals for _me_ dad, just for me, so they can hear me sing notes that make their hearts melt and their hands shake. They’ll pay to see me in gorgeous dresses under the brightest lights on Broadway and they’ll give me standing ovations every night. And they’ll know my name and they’ll shout it from the rooftops and they’ll love me.”

“Sure, Morgana,” Uther had said over the top of his newspaper, not even bothering to meet her eye.

_-+-_

_new york public library, october 20 th_

Morgana is sitting in the library at 6, staring at the cover of _Mr Chicken Goes to Paris._

It’s been twenty years since her father crushed her dreams of becoming Broadway’s most beloved soprano, and she remembers this because of the alerts she gets from casting directors. The emails that come flooding in to her inbox before anyone else lays eye on them; the emails that make her such a good reporter and reviewer.

But something pulls at her heart every time a new Cosette comes onto the scene, like a game of Russian roulette where a gun inches closer to her head every time a new cast change is announced. The first role she’d ever wanted to play; a decade of effort and self-training and tears mixed together, the only output being _“Oh, it’s wonderful that your brother Arthur gets to be on Broadway now! It must be an honour being his sister,”_ or, the more painful, _“Broadway’s newest Cosette, Nimueh Ryan, sits down in an interview with Morgana Pendragon.”_ Morgana would do anything to read the names around the other way. Do anything do feel the thrill of the stage filling her veins, climbing up her spine and reaching towards the heavens.

Now it’s Arthur who brings widespread fame to the Pendragon name. Arthur who gets the soaring high notes, the standing ovations, the adrenalin of performance. Arthur who gets to live ~~their~~ his dream.  

And it’s Morgana resigned to her handwritten notes and lipstick stained coffee cups.

It hurts her, hurts her more than anything imaginable. But she is good at hiding it.

She signs out of the library at 7:12, barely batting an eye as her heels languish in the carpet, clicking sharply on the concrete as soon as they find it.

_-+-_

_gershwin theatre, october 19 th_

“You sure you don’t need your jacket rack to the left of the wings? You always have it in the left of the wings,” Merlin frets, hands shaking slightly.  
“The right’ll do.”  
“I mean, if you say so, it’s my job to do whatever you say, Arthur, just doing my job, listening to you and doing what you say, no matter what it is. I’ll have two Caramel Apple Crisps for after the show, and maybe even a Cranberry Dream because they’ve updated Thursday’s menu this week, but I know that your favourite is still Caramel Apple Crisp and I have to do whatever you say, Arthur. Oh my god, your lavender oil is on the right side of your table, Arthur," and Merlin goes to move the bottle, but his hand is slapped quickly away.   
“Merlin, if you could stop talking for a _minute._ ”

Merlin shuts up.

He watches as Arthur leaves the dressing room, feet heavy, door slamming behind him. He examines each of Arthur’s movements for as long as he can without moving himself from where he is leaning against the far wall of the dressing room, his own limbs trapping him. He’s greeted with the glossy white paint on the back of the door as Arthur’s legs retreat.

Arthur hasn’t been speaking as much lately. It’s Merlin doing all the talking, words hurried, rushed, aiming for perfection. He strives for perfection, wants it as much as Arthur does, but the difference between them is that Merlin will fret and worry about it, using his words to hide his mistakes. Arthur will slouch his back and close in on himself in silence.

Merlin hates seeing Arthur like this.

His knees give way, causing his back to slide down the wall. Merlin breathes out, legs bent in front of him as he finds himself sitting and he presses his hands to his face, covering his eyes, hiding himself. Maybe if he can’t see them, they won’t be able to see him. He hopes it works that way.

_-+-_

It’s always Guinevere who comes to the rescue.

Gwen is one of those people who is always positive; the eternal optimists that you can never understand, who are genuinely happy just to be _happy_.

“I didn’t land the part,” Arthur says.  
“At least you got good feedback and shook hands with that big casting director,” Gwen says.  
“My articles have been rejected for an entire week,” Morgana says.  
“Then there must be something wrong with your publishing director. Anyway, your interviews have been completely blowing up online,” Gwen says.  
“I can’t believe that girl at the bar turned me away,” Gwaine says.  
“Hey, you’ve still got the number of the girl you met the other night,” Gwen says.  
“I’ve written an entire show but I’m too afraid to show it to anyone let alone get anyone to sing a single song from it or dare I say it, get someone to perform it or sell the rights or –“  
“Merlin,” Gwen passes him his Red Velvet, “even if you don’t want to show your compositions to me, I’m sure that your show is beautiful. Merlin, everything that you write or create or do is completely gorgeous and I hope you know how much I appreciate you being there for me all the time.”

It’s Guinevere this time, too.

_-+-_

It starts with her and her quick pace sauntering down the hallway, silken voice trailing up and down a harmonic minor scale. She takes her time, embellishing the leading note before riffing down to the tonic.

Her quick riffs are intricate and technical, but anyone could feel the care that she places on each note that she passes through. Just like she cares for Merlin, when she spots him curled up on the floor of Arthur’s dressing room.

The scales stop, and there is a flash of green passing through the door that Merlin completely misses – he still has his dumb hands over his eyes – and Gwen’s arms are around him, embracing him, trapping in the remnants of warmth and happiness and positivity in his system.

“You have a show to do,” Merlin breathes into his sleeve, budging just a little to try and push Gwen away, towards her responsibilities and far away from him.  
“I have a friend -” Gwen huffs as she puts her back to the wall in imitation of Merlin’s sad stance, “to cheer up. Now. Apart from the fact that everyone knows that you’re completely and utterly besotted with Arthur Pendragon to the point that I might as well call up and get a marriage certificate prepared already,” – Merlin winces – “what’s the deal.”  
Merlin is silent.  
“I have to dress Mordred,” he finally offers.  
“MORDRED,” Gwen screams, and Merlin is sure that that volume can’t be good for her voice half an hour before a show, “Get Kara to dress you, won’t you? I’m giving Merlin a counselling session here.”  
A soft _“Okay, Guinevere,”_ comes floating back down the hall.

“Now, what’s _really_ wrong, Merlin,” Gwen rubs small circles into Merlin’s shoulders. She seems determined to solve all of the problems in his life, and Merlin commends her for taking on the task.  
“First of all,” Gwen says, “your posture,” and within ten seconds Merlin is sat in Arthur’s chair facing his crystal clear mirror. He doesn’t dare look himself in the eye. The three polaroid photos stuck carefully on the mirror stare back at him, and he can feel Arthur’s eyes in the lowest one staring at him. The daggy hoodie feels so alien to what Arthur is usually like; custom-fit suede suits, sharp angles from shoulders to waist to hips to polished shoes, hair gloriously limned in the Astoria moonlight. He stretches out a hand to quickly move the bottle of lavender oil from the right side of Arthur's table to the left, where it belongs. He remembers this bottle, and though it's about a third full now, it has lasted Arthur, at Merlin's estimate, an impressive four and a half years. He never truly resents the fact that his hands will smell of lavender for a week or so after he so much as touches the bottle. 

Gwen is standing behind him now, hands on her hips. Merlin feels compelled to speak, but he doesn’t know what to say. So he talks about what, or who, he knows best.

“Arthur is different today,” he says weakly, and a wave of pain rushes through him with the thought of it.  
“I can tell,” Gwen leans herself on the arm of the chair, “and I can tell because you’re the one acting differently.”  
Merlin can’t deny it. He’s been worried today, obsessed with everything being perfect. It’s not like him, (and he’s been on time, which is the thing that has him most concerned.)

It takes a minute and a half of silence for the first tear to escape Merlin’s eyes, travelling slowly down his tired cheek.

And Gwen just hugs him. He feels some of her green paint coming off onto his skin, onto his navy jumper, but Gwen’s warmth is infectious and he feels some of it filling up the empty space in his chest. But he has a long way to go before he is as warm as her.

“He’s angry,” Merlin whispers, “and it’s my fault. I’m the one around him that makes him angry. I messed up the jacket and the belt yesterday, in the second act. I made him talk about that Accolon guy. He’s so cold when he’s angry, and when Arthur is cold, the whole theater feels colder. I feel colder.”

Gwen listens.

“He means _so much_ to me, Gwen, and I can’t see him like this. Arthur never gets sad, he just, he just –“ Merlin rolls his tongue, “he closes up. He finds a place in himself so far away from us, where I can’t reach him. And I’ll still see him almost every day because he gets on with the show. He sits in this chair and he does his hair and puts on his costume and performs flawlessly.”

“But he hurts, and you hurt.”

“And I hurt.”

Gwen taps her greenified fingers on the top of Merlin’s head. She knows what will distract Merlin.

“The first time I met Lance, I fell in love with him,” Gwen says, and Merlin is immediately transported a world away from where he sits in Arthur’s chair, inundated with worry.

_-+-_

“Finals bring out the worst in people,” Morgana laments, belongings spread dramatically across the round table in the centre of the library.  
“And the best,” Gwen returns, her hand moving quickly as she transports her pen up and down, left and right, structural handwriting filling the college-lined page. “I never knew how many times a day you bought chai lattes before these exams.”  
Morgana snorts. “Minimum of four,” she says, eyeing the lipstick stain already on the third traveller lid.

“I’m on my final essay, though,” Gwen says, feeling triumphant when Morgana glares at her. “But I have all my referencing to do, still.”  
“Referencing is the easy part, you little primadonna.”  
“Not for me,” Gwen complains, “I hate referencing. The generators never work for me.”

This is when she sees the man standing behind just behind Morgana, back turned, pulling a book down from the top shelf. He meets Gwen’s eye when he’s gained his prize, and Gwen recalls not breathing for the span of time it took her heart to beat thrice. She’d heard of this man before, but only through story – legend. The mysterious tenor from Ithaca who sometimes came down to New York to study on weekends. The man with hands that had held a thousand librettos at once. The man who had made his Broadway debut at the age of eight, playing Gavroche four shows a week. The man who almost always wore mismatched socks, which usually heralded some crazy Christmas propaganda, or Disney merchandise.

“Referencing,” he says, meeting Gwen’s eye, head invitingly tilted.  
“Referencing,” Gwen repeats, not sure of what else she can currently say. She’s lost her gift of eloquence in front of him, feeling like she’s had too much to drink and can’t string together a sentence comprised of anything more than monosyllabic words.

“I’ve got a trick,” the man claims, and he’s over to her seat on the round table in less time than Gwen can imagine, and he’s close to her and leaning over her with one arm around each of her shoulders and his fingers are typing on her laptop and his breath is warm on her shoulder. He’s completely surrounding her, but so innocently, and he smells like neroli and bergamot and nasturtium all at once. Gwen’s eyes dart desperately between his agile fingers and Morgana’s wiggling eyebrows.

“My trick,” he says, “is this little website. _Cite this for me._ ” And he shows Gwen an example of _how to use_ the website, and the example he picks is _his own website,_ his own website _about his voice_ and _his life_ and his _very attractive face._ And he clicks on ‘generate,’ and a little result comes up which he promptly copies and pastes into the bibliography of Gwen’s essay.

“Done,” he says.  
“Thank you,” Gwen manages.  
“My honour,” the man retreats back into the maze of the library.

“Oh! You forgot your book,” Gwen calls out barely a few seconds later, but the man is long gone. She picks up the thin copy of the _Dirty Rotten Scoundrels_ abridged libretto, opening up the front cover. A phone number.

Needless to say, it was love at first cite.

_-+-_

 

Gwen hugs Merlin.

In return, he tries not to dampen her costume with his tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (IM VERY PROUD OF LOVE AT FIRST CITE)


	9. red velvet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this chapter took longer than the others -- it's more than twice as long as usual and also quite pivotal if that makes up for it!
> 
> if you're wondering, accolon is straight out of arthurian legend. he's the guy morgana hooked up with when she got sick of her husband basically  
> i'm using young alejo sauras with his long hair as a faceclaim (you won't regret googling him trust me on this one) or google felix aren for the photos im talking about (you know what, i'm just going to stick his face in at the end)
> 
> also -- there's a running gag with Fiyero's costume - the skin-tight leggings have a habit of showcasing some of the greatest asses on broadway, honestly (i.e. aaron tveit)

**chapter eight / red velvet**

 

Merlin remembers his phone as being extraordinarily modern the day he got it.

If you scroll back far enough to find the first text message he received on it, you would discover that it was sent by Arthur.  

Merlin remembers the day. It’s the opening night of _A Connecticut Yankee,_ and after a successful show, Arthur – _the star_ – is out in the lobby of the theater, walking hand in hand with celebrities of all streams. Merlin – _the white noise_ – is stuck reorganising Arthur’s dressing room for tomorrow night’s show, when his phone buzzes. He doesn’t want to tend to it at first, knowing that it would most likely be Arthur bragging mindlessly about whatever celebrity he had just set up a lunch date with, but after a fierce debate with himself, Merlin decisively crosses the dressing room to where his phone sits.

**_Arthur Pendragon_ ** _(10:56 PM)_

the stars are out tonight (but you can’t see them)

_-+-_

Merlin measures time in the number of shows he does.

He completes twenty four shows like this: Merlin dresses Arthur. He dresses Mordred. He speaks with Mordred. He does the first act. He speaks with either Gwen or Morgause or Leon at intermission, alternating between the trio between shows. He does the second act. He puts away the costumes. He looks over every piece, searching for fraying fabrics or lost sequins. He finds wherever he dropped his backpack. He exits through the stagedoor, walking quickly to avoid the looks on the faces of the disappointed fans.

He waits for Gwen, and they go to Schmackary’s together. Sometimes Leon comes. Sometimes Gwaine meets them there, the nights he’s on at the theater down the road. Once, Mordred came, allowing the gourmet cookies to seduce him into returning. Lance comes some nights, probably once a week, holding Gwen’s hand the entire time.

Merlin orders Red Velvet on the days that Red Velvet is available. Otherwise, he alternates for Peanut Butter After Dark, or maybe Cranberry Dream. He never orders Caramel Apple Crisps.

Gwen almost always gets Funfetti. Morgana always orders Rocky Road. Mordred’s first order was a classic Chocolate Chip, paired with a Lemon Poppy for good luck. Lance’s order is much less concrete than any of the others, with his order based solely on whatever he feels like. Leon always gets Maple Bacon. He says it tastes like happiness.

_-+-_

The same man always works at Schmackary’s in the small hours of the morning, when Merlin brings his friends along.

“You haven’t ordered a Caramel Apple Crisp in weeks,” he says, one day, as he grabs Merlin’s signature Red Velvet.  
“They were never for me, anyway,” Merlin smiles politely as he pays.

_-+-_

_pendragon agencies, october 20 th, 11:20AM_

“Your performances are faltering,” Uther scowls, “the reviews are all saying that the newest Fiyero has lost his spark.”  
“I’m performing in exactly the same way,” Arthur says from his seat in his agent’s office. The black armrests are thin and plastic, so he folds his arms instead.   
Uther scoffs.

He paces, slowly, steadily, and Arthur’s eyes follow him closely. His office is large, the size of the average New York apartment, Hollywood lignum vitae walls lined with framed certificates and diplomas. There is one photo on the middle of a far wall, Arthur’s most recent headshot.

Arthur knows that he is Uther’s star talent. That he is the one that brings in the jobs and the followers and the fans to the Pendragon name. And for that, his reward is being hung on the middle of Uther’s wall. Arthur doesn’t know if the prize is worth the sacrifice.

“The critics don’t seem to think so,” Uther returns to the seat behind his towering desk. Arthur is slightly jealous of the chair, lush and welcoming and wide enough to seat half an army. “What are you missing, Arthur? What has changed?”

“Nothing significant,” Arthur states simply.  
“Speaking as your agent, I would leave it there,” Uther leans towards him. “But speaking as your father, I know that something is wrong.”

Arthur looks up. He meets his father’s strong gaze, and he is a six year old boy again, arms raised in his final pose of his first dance showcase. He is an eight year old boy, staring into the darkness from the stage after the final song of his premiere recital, immersed in applause. He is the fifteen year old boy hanging up his costume after his last show of _Dirty Rotten Scoundrels_ in high school.

But here he is now, twenty four and wide eyed, with words he can give to his agent but not his father.

“ _A Connecticut Yankee;_ you were focused. A short and sweet run, but you were on the mark every single night. The producers loved it, the critics loved it, the people loved it. What do you remember about that run?”

All Arthur can think is “Merlin Merlin Merlin,” but he’s not allowed to think those thoughts anymore.

_-+-_

Merlin never thought that he’d say that the worst part of his job was having to see Arthur every day. But it’s true in the fact that it hurts to see him, to dress him, to be around him without being able to talk to him.

Maybe it would be better if he wasn’t around Arthur for eight shows a week, Merlin thinks, for the first time since meeting the tenor. Maybe it was better when he was pining relentlessly, heart aching every time Arthur spoke. Maybe it was better then, before he ceased to speak to Arthur for three weeks.

The very worst part is how futile the emptiness is.

Merlin doesn’t know how he fucked up so he can’t solve it.

At least if he had known how he’d fucked up, he could start taking a step towards what they had before. But Merlin is completely lost.

“He’s driving me fucking _crazy,_ Gwen,” Merlin buries his head in his permanently oversized sleeves, pushed hastily onto a marble table. “At least when we argued, we were talking. I could lament inside, but he was talking to me. Now he’s so far away.”  
“You realise only now how different your life is without him,” Gwen lowers her Funfetti. It doesn’t seem fit for the occasion.

Merlin doesn’t order a cookie at all.

_-+-_

_the sky deck, a bar in the theatre district, october 20 th, 7:20PM_

Accolon is wearing a dress shirt, and something about the pale grey grid on the white shirt tucked into his jeans catches Morgana by surprise.

She arrives at 7:26, and Accolon is already sitting by the bar. Morgana looks the bartender up and down, wincing momentarily at her bouncing blonde ponytail. Morgana knows that the bartender has her eye on Accolon; she can see that look hovering in her eye.

“I distinctly remember writing _at the door_ ,” Morgana announces her arrival, and though her tone is strict and scolding, she is smiling, eyebrows invitingly raised. She is very satisfied when the bartender slinks a few more feet away from Accolon when she notices Morgana's intimidating strides.   
“You also said half past seven,” Accolon returns, as Morgana slides smoothly into the adjacent barstool, “and as far as I can tell, it’s not.”  
“Trivial errors,” Morgana cocks her head to the side innocently.  
“Any journalist looking for success on Broadway should carefully consider each and every one of their words,” Accolon teases, and Morgana could kiss him right there.

But she doesn’t, smirks coyly, and raises a hand for the bartender.

_-+-_

“Your point in bringing me here was…?”  
“Good question,” Morgana smiles, “I wanted to get to know you.”

She’s very tipsy, and Accolon is well aware of the fact.

“And, it’s my birthday tomorrow.”  
“Really?”  
“Really, I’m twenty-seven at half past ten in the evening tomorrow.” Morgana’s expression changes suddenly, her back straightening as she pouts. “Twenty seven. So old.”   
Accolon laughs. A genuine laugh, full and hearty and it makes Morgana melt a little more inside. “Better get you a walking stick. You’ll probably need one tonight, looking at how much you’ve drank.”  
“Twenty six and on a walking stick,” Morgana laments, hands in her hair.

She looks around, and the dim lights of the room start to blur together, just a touch. The haze is welcoming to Morgana, who is so used to everything in her life being organised, mapped out and scheduled to the quarter of the hour, everything rock solid and ready to go. The quaint café at the bottom of her apartment block knows to have her regular chai latte ready by 8:23 every morning every day except for Saturday and Thursday, just cool enough by the time she snaps it up to go at 8:25 on the dot. Her commute down the road to her office takes her five minutes and twenty-six seconds in five inch heels; five minutes and thirteen seconds if she downgrades to four inch heels. Whenever she hops on the metro, her MetroCard is in the third card slot of her wallet, and she doesn’t even need to look to pull it out and swipe without breaking stride.

But this bar is different to anything she has ever felt before; the silent cerise and mazarine fairy lights blurring into what they claimed was the best view of Times Square and his dangerous voice is ineffably intoxicating for Morgana. The twinkling is ethereal, and she knows that she gets the joy off of the illicit twinges of her delights dancing in her bright eyes.

If she were frozen in this moment, she would be happy until the end of time.

But there are things that cannot be.

“Your brother hates me,” Accolon whispers, after Morgana has been silent for a while. “I kept stealing roles from him in college. Your father hated me, too.”  
Though it seems petty, his glowing eyes are clouded over, and Morgana’s heart breaks a little. She feels unprotected without his emeraldine eyes watching over her, staring deeper into the dangerous recesses of her mind than she dares travel.    
“You’re a tenor,” tipsy Morgana finally manages, mouth hanging open in half-hearted disbelief.  
“ _Was,_ ” Accolon corrects her, and Morgana frowns dramatically.

There is more silence.

It’s not really silence, but it is silent by New York’s standards. It is almost as if New York is moping with the both of them, trying to accommodate their conversation in her busy atmosphere.

“I’m allergic to lavender.”

Lavender. _Distrust._

Morgana wonders where all of this is going.

“All forms of lavender. The flower, the calming creams, particularly the oil.”  
“Arthur always has lavender oil,” Morgana says, “he says it calms him before shows.”  
“Lavender is a great anti-stress agent,” Accolon nods, “but it kind of sucks for me. I go anywhere near lavender and I end up in emergency for a week.”  
“Unfortunate,” Morgana makes a list in her head of the perfumes she’ll have to discard now.   


“I had a two and a half litre water bottle, those days.”  
“Tenor. Lavender. Two and a half litre bottle,” Morgana summarises, “fascinating.”  
“I landed Jamie in _The Last Five Years_.”  
“Tenor. Lavender. Fucking massive bottle. Jamie, oh, Arthur had wanted to play that for so long.”  
“I know. And Uther would do anything for him to play it.”  
“Uther would do anything for whatever he wanted. I’m not sure about what he’d do for what Arthur wanted.”  
“Arthur put twelve drops of lavender oil in my water during our second rehearsal for _The Last Five Years._ ”

“Shit,” Morgana draws out slowly, and it seems like the weight of the world comes crashing down on her. Things start to fall into place. Why Arthur knew Accolon. Why he hated him so much. Why none of them had known Accolon, even though he had crept through the same hallways as them for years.

“It wasn’t enough for me to notice, but it was enough for my throat to completely tear itself apart.” He shuts his eyes, and Morgana reflexively places her hand over his, resting silently on the bar. “It tore my chords apart and it tore my career apart. My agent abandoned me.”  
His eyes are still closed. Morgana rubs soundless shapes into the back of his hand, desperate to see his shining eyes again. The lights are separate from each other now, the similar hues seeming so different and defined against the solidarity of the New York skyline.

_-+-_

“I’ve never seen you so alive on stage,” Uther praises, mouth miraculously shaped into something other than a scowl.   
“And a two person show,” Morgana instinctively critiques, “so hard to pull off so beautifully.”

Arthur beams. He has a glow when he comes straight off the end of a run, an aura that can’t be diminished by anything at all. His teeth are sparkling, his hair still riddled with sweat, his eyes too bright and too startled, reminiscent of a deer in the headlights. But he is the happiest he has ever been.

Uther is somewhat proud of his son.

“They’re planning on making a movie out of _The Last Five Years_ soon,” Uther remarks, “I’ll make sure I send your name in.”  
“A _movie,_ ” Arthur is numb to any emotion that isn’t positive, and Morgana thinks it a strange look on him. He looks almost _too_ happy.

“I thought that the show was wonderfully directed,” she averts the conversation, not realising her mistake. “I’d like to speak to the director sometime, if that’s possible.”

Arthur’s smile flickers.

_-+-_

“So you directed instead,” Morgana murmurs, not realising that she's starting to close the gap between them.  
“I directed instead,” Accolon repeats. “I had these creative visions, coming to me all the time. And because I couldn’t perform them myself, I had to stage them. And _The Last Five Years_ was the first chance I got.”  
“Went well, obviously.”  
“Well enough for me to graduate in half the time with a direction degree under my belt.”  
His tone is almost sombre, and it taunts Morgana. The fact that she has been in his presence for years but only known him for a week and a half pulls at her, and she feels like she needs to make up for lost time. _He’s not a junior reporter,_ she tells herself, _he’s an accomplished director. He’s directed my brother. My brother ruined his life, and he got back up and carried on and -_  
“Pity about the voice,” Morgana frowns. “You would’ve made one fine tenor.”  
Accolon’s signature smirk returns, all clouds from the previous conversation cleared from his glowing eyes. “Does that mean you can see me as Fiyero?”  
“Mmm, most certainly in his _leggings,_ ” Morgana cooes, and the lights dance with each other in the wings. Their hands are still connected, and she knows that Accolon knows the same thing.

The space between them is so small, so tempting, and Morgana is hit with the urge to erase it completely, but she holds her ground.

She imagines what it would be like to kiss him; the taste of the years she’d wasted, tall glasses of champagne, refusing to play by the rules, rough and gorgeously gentle at the same time. The delicate pull of his stubble on her long fingers, like expensive shoes clicking along the granite floors of a dark museum after hours. Like Morgana can see him holding a gun to her temple, a perilous _Whitney Wolverine_ , plated in a dazzling rose-gold nickel sheen and ready to kill – but it’s all okay because it’s his finger on the trigger. Like waves mounting and swelling, but never daring to touch the bow of the ship she’s standing on, the sunsets burning together in a strange supernova that nobody remembers to watch. Like an ephemeral glow of moonlight, bouncing off of the freshwater pearls on the delicate necks of royalty. All this at the same time.

Morgana doesn’t need to cross the space, because Accolon does it for her.

It is all that Morgana imagined.

_-+-_

In ten years’ time, this is how this day will be remembered to most:

_Today is October 21 st. It is a Friday. It is Morgana Fay Pendragon’s twenty-seventh birthday. _

This is how the day will be remembered to Arthur:

_Today is the day that Arthur realises that he is in love with Merlin._

_-+-_

Arthur loves him.

He’s afraid to tell him.

He’s afraid to hold him.

And he’ll always be.

_-+-_

Morgana wakes to kisses trailing along her cheekbone.

The kisses are soft and tantalisingly sweet, her eyes fluttering open in half-hearted protest when they don’t continue.

She has woken up in a bed she doesn’t know, but that fact doesn’t particularly concern her. She feels at just as much at home, anyway.

This is how she wants to spend the rest of her days, she decides, laid delicately in an ocean of crisp white sheets, dark hair floating in a cloud around her like faeries had laid out each individual strand. The room smells like vanilla and spring and gardenias all at once, intertwining the scents together into a dulcet perfume, surrendering her to the opulence of it all. Sunlight sweeps lazily through the spaces in the Venetian blinds, imprinting bright patterns on the blank sheets. Maybe he _did_ shoot her in the temple and she’s ascended straight to heaven, because this is what she assumes heaven feels like.

The morning is quiet, peaceful, mesmerising. The only movement aside from the gentle climbing of the sun, is the weight of a body moving across the bed, disturbing the accidental perfect placement of the sheets. Morgana murmurs a noise in some language nobody could decipher, reaching her arms up to pull the guilty perpetrator back down toward her. He obliges without delay; better to obey a sleepy Morgana than to face other consequences.  

“Come back,” Morgana murmurs without opening her eyes, lips curving as she feels his celestial warmth return to her.   
“Happy birthday,” Accolon croons, lingering.

_-+-_

_How do you know if you’re in love with someone_ is something Arthur never thought he would be googling.

Arthur has managed to elude love for his entire life. It is for this reason that his phone is victim to his questions that he should be able to answer for himself. Or he could’ve asked his friends – he’s definitely not too afraid to ask his friends about what it’s like to be in love. Definitely.

He hastily presses the first article that shows up, tilting his screen towards his chest so that nobody can read it, nevermind the fact that he is alone in his empty apartment at 8 in the morning.

**5 Ways To Tell You’re In Love With Someone  
** _Published by Nimueh Ryan, August 11 11:01AM_

Arthur recognises the name the article has been attributed to – Broadway’s current Cosette. He’d been acquainted with Nimueh on occasion, a hopeless romantic, to the point where every one of her shows she had acted in yearning for a different partner.

  1. **_They’re the best part of your day._**



_-+-_

The stagedoor slams thirty-two times in quick succession, most days.

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur calls as he hears an outlier, the door daring to slam twenty minutes after the regular mob.  
“Mhm,” Merlin says through a bite of a sandwich, probably his lunch that he finally decided to have by four. “Coming.”

Merlin leaves his bag somewhere that he won’t remember, whisking quickly into Arthur’s dressing room. He swiftly drops a striped paper bag with two Caramel Apple Crisps onto the table in front of Arthur as he readies his hands for his work.

This was the last week of winter, but Arthur is impossibly warm inside.

_-+-_

  1. **_They’re the person you think about first._**



_-+-_

“When I’m old and grey and tired,” Arthur genuinely thinks as he speaks into the microphone, “I’m going to buy a farm in Northern Germany and tend to that for the rest of my days.”  
The interviewer is a little taken aback, probably not used to such an honest response on a red carpet.  
“You, uh, you speak German?”  
“No, I don’t,” Arthur laughs, “but Merlin does, a little.”  
“And Merlin is –“  
“Oh,” Arthur realises that the world doesn’t know Merlin’s name like they know his – “Merlin Emrys is my dresser.”  
“You’d take your dresser to live out your after-Broadway retirement dreams?”  
“Of course. He’d do all the actual work, I’d sit back in my rocking chair and handwrite correspondence to my friends and probably Bernadette Peters, if it all works out for me.”

This was the middle of summer, but Arthur feels cool shimmers down his spine when he talks about Merlin.

_-+-_

  1. **_You love their imperfections._**



_-+-_

“What does it take for you to be _on time_ for once,” Leon complains as Merlin drags over his costumes for the first act. It is Leon’s first show as Fiyero, meaning Merlin’s first time making Leon fit for the role instead of Arthur. The principal is sitting four thousand miles away on the Norwegian-Swedish border, but his voice nevertheless crackles ruthlessly through Merlin’s crappy phone.

“Don’t even suggest it, Leon,” Arthur connotes, “the earlier you ask him to come, the later he’ll arrive.”  
“What about reverse psychology, then,” Leon seems proud of himself, “I’ll ask him to come an hour after the show starts. Then he might arrive remotely on time.”  
“Unlikely,” Arthur says.  
“True,” Merlin confirms. “Jacket time.”

Arthur should be freezing in the Norwegian north, but he feels as though he’s been warmed up inside with a hearty hot chocolate.

_-+-_

  1. **_You change your routine for them._**



“And you’ve got to have your hair done by the time I’m done with Mordred, then I finish up with your entire lot of costumes for the first act.”  
“It’s not _fair_ that I don’t get my _own_ dresser.”  
“I'm the one who gets double the workload,” Merlin rebuts as he hauls a rack, “I should be the one complaining, your highness.”  
“But I have to _share_ you,” Arthur scrunches his face up.  
“Pity, I'm the one who has to deal with you,” Merlin cooes, “but there’s plenty of me to go around.”  
“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur whines, “I have a show to do.”

It always feels like Merlin takes twice as long to dress Mordred, and Arthur is not, and he repeats, is _not_ jealous of the fact that he has to share Merlin. He’s annoyed at the fact that his dresser isn’t investing all his time in Arthur, who should of course be his top priority. He imagines what Merlin and Mordred are talking about – would they ever talk about Arthur? Does Merlin worry about him at all?

His hair is done in record time.

“Impressive,” Merlin absentmindedly comments on that fact, “the diva has come down to earth.”

Arthur knows that he should feel offended. But he is still warm and fuzzy inside.

_-+-_

  1. **_You can’t imagine your life without them._**



_-+-_

“Merlin’s out sick,” George recites formally, “I’ll be your dresser for the two shows today.”

Arthur actually makes a noise that resembles that of a sad puppy. George winces.

“Didn’t he tell you he’d be missing today’s shows?”  
“Well, yes, but I didn’t think he’d actually mean it,” Arthur whines.   
“Merlin told me that he had an auto-immune disease. Hyperthyroidism, it was acting up or something.”  
Of course Arthur knows that Merlin has hyperthyroidism, and that it’d act up every now and again. But he feels a little dishevelled, to say the least, when he doesn’t have Merlin prepping him up before a show.

Maybe Merlin isn’t just his dresser. Maybe Merlin inspires him to a level way beyond what a dresser is usually accredited with.

_“He’s not_ that _bad,”_ Arthur remembers Laura saying in that interview, _“pretty good when you think about him, actually. He’s subtle in that way, Merlin. You don’t notice him at first, but when you’ve been around him long enough, he has a way of bleeding into your life. Twisting into the things you do every day, intertwining his habits into your routine. And when you take a step back, you finally realise how different your life would be without him. Merlin Emrys is a force to be reckoned with.”_  
  


_-+-_

And so, it took Arthur Pendragon twenty eight shows without speaking to Merlin to figure out that he was in love with him.

_-+-_

“I’m in love with Merlin,” Arthur says into his phone.   
“You sound scared about that,” the voice on the other end flits quietly back.

Maybe Arthur _is_ scared about that.

“But I, ah,” the voice is timid, “good job for, you know, figuring that out. Took you long enough.”

Arthur is vaguely insulted.

“Took me long enough? To figure out I was in _love?_ ” Arthur scowls on the last word, like saying it causes him physical pain. It kind of did.  
“We all knew. The entire cast has been going on about it since you joined the company. There’ve probably been bets going on in security entitled ‘When Will Merlin and Arthur Get Their Shit Together And Make Out Or Something.’”  
“Mordred, are you trying to insinuate that I am the only one who didn’t realise that I was in love with Merlin Emrys.”  
Mordred doesn’t hesitate. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you.”  
“Well,” Arthur says into his sleeve, “shit.”

There is a pause, before the other side of the line pipes up.

“Arthur,” Mordred says quietly, “why did you call me first? I’d assume that you’d call Gwen or your sister before me. We don’t even really talk except in the show. I just don’t know why you’d pick me to tell your heart’s lament to.”  
“I don’t know either,” Arthur admits, before following with, “are you going to Morgana’s party this evening?”

Mordred nods, before he realises that Arthur can’t see him nodding. “Yeah,” he puts his actions into words.

“I’ll see you there, then,” Arthur says, and hangs up.

He knows that he’ll see Merlin there, too. Maybe he’ll talk to him. Maybe he won’t.

_-+-_

The twenty-second and twenty-third shows post-Arthur fall on a two-show Thursday. Merlin doesn’t go to Schmackary’s at all.

When he walks in on Friday evening, he doesn’t need to speak. He sits down at a table in the corner, lays out his manuscript, and smiles weakly when the man who's always there brings him a bag with a Red Velvet.

_-+-_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

__  
i mean, how could you blame morgana???

 

 (and aaron tveit and his fiyero pants for good measure ;) )


	10. rocky road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> broadway nerd trivia:  
> in cinderella, there's a crazy quick change onstage that Cinderella does, from peasant to ballgown (i'll put in a gif at the end, it's crazy) and merlin the nerd dresser of course is so invested in this sort of thing but honestly who wouldn't be

**chapter nine / rocky road**

Merlin first saw Arthur when he came to a show at a nearby university.

The show was Cinderella, and Merlin remembers hearing whispers in the audience as he took his seat; the Prince was in his junior year, the Prince had just come off of a world premiere run in Australia, the Prince was the Pendragon son. The names and credits meant nothing to Merlin.

“I’m here for my friend, Sophia,” Merlin remembers telling the old man in the seat next to him,” she’s playing Cinderella.”  
“You must be jealous of the Pendragon son, then,” the old man seems proud of himself to be fitting in with the youths, “gets to kiss her all romantically in the middle of a show.”  
_If we’re playing that game, I think I’d be more jealous of her,_ Merlin later scolds himself for not saying.  
“Not really, she’s a good friend of mine,” Merlin shrugs instead, fingers fiddling with his program.

The show is good. Merlin loves Rodgers and Hammerstein, all predictable chords and sweet major keys and a loot of songs sopranos would come to ravage for auditions. During intermission, he finds himself rethinking the quickest quick change he’s ever seen on a stage, and how Sophia managed to do it. He wonders if anyone else is thinking about the change, or if it is just the dresser inside him coming out. (He later learns that, of _course,_ everyone is thinking about the quick change.)

After the second act, Merlin thinks about how he’s sure that the Prince is wearing a wig. A brown wig, which for starters, does not suit him. He doesn’t check the program for his headshot, but simply hopes that the actor doesn’t really have brown hair.  


He goes to wait at the stagedoor for Sophia at the end of the show, waiting off to the side. A university is far less popular than a Broadway stagedoor, Merlin knows too well, where the latter is swamped by hundreds of screaming fans, and universities get maybe a few friends, usually fellow students, and the occasional family member. The first girl out of the stagedoor, Merlin remembers, is a short girl with taut curls and eyes of smoky quartz. He recalls that she played Marie, the fairy godmother – which he is quite proud of for remembering; his seat wasn’t the best, at the far back of the stalls, and he hadn’t laid an eye on the headshot page of the program once. She eventually walks off, arms linked with two of her friends, and she makes brief eye contact with Merlin, flashing a smile which Merlin returns a second too late.

The ensemble and orchestra and crew eventually file out into the soft night, and it’s just Merlin left waiting there for Sophia. During the procession, Merlin has befriended two quaint violinists, who asked him why he was waiting. He hasn’t spoken otherwise.

The heavy door swings open again, and Merlin looks up expectantly. It’s a very blonde man he doesn’t really recognise, but he has the stance that can only belong to an actor. An actor who knows that he’s good at what he does. _Tenors._  

He looks questioningly at Merlin.

“You good?” the man finally asks, after a few seconds of strange eye contact.  
“Fine.”  
The man raises his eyebrows momentarily in slight confusion, lowering them almost immediately and tilting his head. “Okay, then,” he huffs, “don’t know what you’re still doing here, but you do you.” He scowls, words dripping with sarcasm, calling out for a challenge. Merlin (and still to this day) gives him what he wants.  
“And who do you think you are? The king?”  
“The Prince,” Arthur Pendragon replies smoothly, “Prince Charming.”

Merlin blinks, distracted only when the stagedoor finally opens to reveal what he’d been waiting for.

“A very good one at that,” Sophia chimes in as she shuts the door and locks it, being the last one out of the theatre again. “Thanks for coming, Merlin.”

At least he doesn’t have brown hair.

 

Merlin doesn’t go to see very many university shows. But he always asks Sophia when the Pendragon son will be on.

 

_-+-_

_accolon’s apartment, october 21 st_

“I mean, you don’t _have_ to get up. It’s a Saturday. And your birthday.”

Morgana mumbles something explicit into the pillows.

“But it _is_ almost ten, and I’m guessing it’ll take you more than ten minutes to get ready for your birthday dinner,” Accolon pulls on Morgana’s arms so that she’s sitting up, back leaning against the headboard. “And I hope that you like bacon and eggs.”

Morgana’s eyes flash open when she registers the smell of delightful cooking drifting towards her. She sees the plate sitting on a wooden tray in front of her, and she glows.

“The dinner’s at seven,” Morgana delegates, “I’ll need to be at my apartment at six to get my dress. But until that,” she smirks, “we do _not_ leave this place. I’ve missed out on too much of you for too long.”  
“Well, we need to fix that, don’t we,” Accolon starts to walks away from Morgana, who whines at the act.

_-+-_

Arthur marches down the road and straight into Schmackary’s.

_-+-_

“You should give up directing and open a café on seventh or something,” Morgana muses as she finishes up the last of the scrambled eggs.  
“That’d be the first time I’ve been told that,” Accolon runs his tongue over his teeth, looking down. Morgana grins cunningly.  
“Accolon hasn’t had many girls over, so he can’t cook them bacon and eggs,” she pouts. Accolon looks up at her, unamused.

Morgana actually doesn’t understand how Accolon isn’t practically inundated with girls clinging to him. But then again, she is slightly biased in her views, and now her egg preferences. She doesn’t know how she ended up lucky enough to be laying in his little slice of heaven.

“Nevertheless, those eggs taste good,” she says, before she puts down her fork and searches for the taste of his lips instead.

_-+-_

“Rocky Road, Funfetti, Caramel Apple Crisp,” Arthur says to the short woman behind the glass canopy of a counter.

“Red Velvet,” he adds on second thought.

_-+-_

Morgana’s day consists of much less kissing than she would’ve liked it to.

“It’s my _birthday,_ ” she complains, fingers reaching out, stained with sunlight.  
“Good things come to those who wait,” Accolon’s retreating back murmurs.

Accolon is doing a lot of leaving Morgana today, because he spends most of his time right next to her. The time that they spend connected through the cold touch of bare skin hazes together, making the time they spend apart so stark and unwelcoming. She would despise the fact that he leaves so much, but she finds comfort in the supplementary fact – he always comes back.

_-+-_

He just has a matinee to get through today, and then he has the night off for Morgana’s party.

“I should be able to come too,” Leon had stated, and so the evening’s show became a hot spot for swings.

An eighteen year old had assumed to Fiyero, thanking Arthur and Leon profusely for letting him make his solo Broadway debut. Gwen and Morgause had both bailed, leaving the show to their understudies, and Mordred had pushed his week of holiday leave a day back to attend the party.

Arthur opens the door to his dressing room and finds George waiting for him.

“Hypothyroidism,” George explains.  
“ _Hyperthyroidism,_ ” Arthur corrects, offended that anyone dare make a mistake of Merlin’s medical condition.

_-+-_

The afternoon’s show is absurdly stocked with principals. Everybody with their names printed in italics at the top of the playbill is on stage, which rarely happens. Usually, one of the leads or supporting cast is away, or sick, or nursing a hangover, but this matinee has everybody on.

“It’s funny,” Gwen says to Morgause as they line up to check their microphones, “Morgana decides to throw a party and half of Broadway has to attend.”  
“Must be hell for understudies. They’re the ones who have to decide between making their solo debut and going to Morgana’s,” Morgause fiddles with a handful of sequins as she is called forward for lines.

They all know that all of Broadway will be a gold mine for understudies, swings, standbys, debutants. Morgana Pendragon is someone you want to be around, if not for her name, then for the sake that she is one of the most enticing people you will ever meet.

Accolon learned that the hard way.

_-+-_

It’s a good show for Arthur.

It’s a good _life_ for Arthur: he gets to do what he loves every day, belting his heart out with his closest friends right next to him, a crowd of adoring fans waiting just outside, the best cookies in the world a few steps down the road.

But when he passes his last jacket to George, it doesn’t feel quite right.

_-+-_

Five o’clock rolls around and Morgana doesn’t want to leave.

Accolon has tangled his life into hers, his words in her mouth, his hands in her hair. Morgana is convinced that she has known him for so much longer than she really has, her mouth clambering for the purchase that she could’ve had so many years earlier, saving her heartbreak after heartbreak with only this man’s touch. She could have dispersed a small battalion of ex-lovers with only this man by her side, defeated the empty space in her chest with this man’s laugh alone.

She thanks the stars for the fact that her apartment is a ten minute walk away from his, and that they pass Schmackary’s on the way.

“I’ve never been,” Accolon says as he pushes open the glass door for her, and Morgana stops walking right there and then.  
“Honey, you’ve got a big storm coming,” she shakes her head, startled that someone who lived so close to the best cookies in the world had never tasted them.  
“I guess my true New Yorker status should be revoked, in that case,” Accolon closes the door gently behind them.  
“Rocky Road, please,” Morgana tells the woman behind the counter, “and,” she looks Accolon up and down (which she honestly did _not_ need to do, but she felt like doing, and nobody could blame her,) “a Schmacker-doodle and Chocolate Duet for the gentleman.”

“Gentleman,” Accolon grins, slithering his arms around Morgana’s waist from behind to prove his point.  
“Mmm, I don’t tell many lies,” Morgana schmoozes, leaning into his touch, craving more.

 

“I get to keep my true New Yorker status if I say these cookies are the best in the world, because they are,” Accolon says later, as Morgana unlocks the door to her apartment with difficulty. Maybe it'd be easier for her if Accolon let go of her for half a second.

_-+-_

Merlin doesn’t compose much anymore.

He sits at an open piano, fingers dancing lightly along the ivory and ebony but never daring to press hard enough to play a sound. He’s become too unconfident about anything that he could play or wright, and the stack of manuscript sits untouched in the corner. He closes the piano lid soon after he opens it.

There is two hours before he is due to grace _Per Se_ with his uncoordinated presence, marching through the doors of the third most expensive restaurant in the world. Determined not to be late, Merlin swings open the door of his wardrobe to reveal his one vaguely expensive suit, dry cleaned for the occasion. It’s a rather boring suit, just black but a good fit, but it does the job Merlin bought it to do.

He is aware of how out of place he must look, polished dress shoes and expensive suit, rattling underneath New York on the metro.

But nothing can really be out of place in New York.

_-+-_

“No presents,” Morgana had always set as a preface to any birthday party she had thrown. She is not superficial, and the fact that her friends come for her bearing their true selves rather than gifts is the best present she could ever receive.

_-+-_

Arthur often wears his Armani navy suit because he was once told that it complemented his skin undertones immaculately.

He likes the suit, anyway, the way it subtly stands out from the crowd of boring black suits without making too dramatic a statement. The way it fits, all angles and straight tracks outlining his body, a stark silhouette against the structural skyline.

He tells himself that it is a good suit, and not just because it was Merlin the dresser who told him it matched his skin.

_-+-_

Eleven people are invited to the dinner at _Per Se,_ all of whom must be Uther-approved at least four months prior to the occasion for the sake of seating arrangements.

This means that Accolon leaves Morgana at the door, with nothing but a kiss to the forehead and a promise that he’d meet her first thing at the surreptitious after party. Accolon busies himself with wiping the dark lipstick off of his jawline as he catches the lift down from the fourth floor.

Even though it is Morgana’s birthday, Uther sits at the head of the table, with Morgana on his right and Arthur on his left. The running order on Morgana’s side of the table leaves room for Gwen, Morgause, and Nimueh. Following Arthur, comes Lance, Gwaine, Merlin, Percival, and Mordred. Uther has always been overly keen on the separation of the genders, much to Morgana’s disgust.

_-+-_

“It’s Vera Wang,” Morgana commentates matter-of-factly when Arthur points at her dress. “Custom made.”

In Arthur’s eyes, every suit looks the same, so he’s sure that he doesn’t know the slightest thing about dresses. The burgundy and gold that laces around his sister is something he certainly couldn’t describe eloquently, but it is no challenge for Morgana.

“All I told Vera was that I’d like a halter neck and something gold, and this is the stunner she comes out with,” she turns her head slightly to show off the neckline, “it pays to be on a first name basis with some of the most influential designers in the world.”

She runs her fingers over the stiff golden belt, embellishments of flowers and thorns encircling her, mirroring the ring of crystals emblazoned onto her forehead. The fabric flowing delicately to the floor is the same colour as the lipstick stains Accolon will be finding ~~around him~~ _on_ him for weeks to come.

_-+-_

The meal is the best thing that Merlin has ever tasted. The event passes by in a blur of charcoal grilled Miyazaki wagyu, royal Kaluga caviar, and pearl tapioca, a fine selection that Merlin remembers amongst the _five courses._

But in ten years’ time, he will not remember the absurdly expensive dishes. He will remember the after party.

_-+-_

If one wanted to find entire constellations of Broadway’s new generation of stars in one place, you’d have to beg, borrow, or steal a ticket to Morgana’s _real_ party. The one Uther wouldn’t find out about until tomorrow, the place where the hidden recesses of celestial desires were brought to light.

Actors are wealths of passion. How this passion is exposed differs from man to man.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note the symbolism of the chapter titles and their relations to the characters ;)


	11. chocolate duet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, oh man here we go
> 
> broadway words:  
> corner of the sky: a sick tenor solo by stephen schwartz (the guy who wrote wicked) from a show called pippin: "why do i feel i don't fit in/everywhere i go"  
> popular: very overdone soprano very comic song where galinda (blonde chick in wicked) 'popularises' elphaba (green chick) by giving her tips on talking to boys, taking her glasses away, and putting lipstick on her???  
> c'est moi: an actual song in Camelot (sung by Lancelot actually) where it's basically lancelot asking "where can i find a man this perfect" "oh wait its ME"  
> sweet transvestite: google anthony head sweet transvestite jesus christ its FILTHy  
> Cinderella (Into The Woods): not to be confused with cinderella in cinderella!! gorgeous soprano role but i'm a little biased because i just played her and it was the best thing i've ever ever done ever  
> agony: song in into the woods, angsty princes, chris pine rips his shirt open, soaks his abs in a waterfall, laments that he cant find cinderella  
> agony (reprise): song in into the woods, angsty princes, chris pine finds more princesses (please please watch both if you haven't)
> 
> i don't know if i've explained this but here's the difference between:  
> Principals/Leads: the people with their names printed at the top of the program, like you'd say "oh, this guy is playing this role."  
> Understudies: people with an ensemble track, who step up to play a lead if the lead actor is sick or can't perform. usually have a show a week anyway to perform on the lead's day off  
> Standby: some demanding lead roles will have someone literally on standby just in case, these people have priority over understudies for going on as a lead as they don't have an ensemble track (I believe they're allowed within two blocks or so of the theater during the show)  
> Swings: AMAZING people who know every role in the show amongst them; swings go into any ensemble track when an understudy goes on as a lead, or if anyone is sick or away a swing fills their spot literally so amazing

**chapter ten / chocolate duet**

The following is an abridged list of Morgana’s former lovers:

Guy Carmelide (a month and a bit) was sophomore year of high school. He bought Morgana a bunch of white roses (without knowing that they meant _death_ ) and Morgana (who also didn’t know that they meant _death_ ) was completely besotted with the boy because he bought flowers for her. The month and a bit consisted of cheap chocolate, weekends that passed perhaps too quickly, more and more white roses, but nothing else.

Corrant Garaunt (three months) was a baritone. He was very proud of the fact that he was a baritone, standing out between the tenors (“you’re going to get super oversexualised if you’re a tenor,”) and the basses, (“the only point of having a bass in a lead role is one impressive very low note, but nobody cares about you otherwise.”) Morgana spent two months and four weeks trying to figure out a subtle way to break up with Corrant. She resolved to never date a baritone again.

Guiomar (six days) was Gwen’s cousin. They met when Arthur and Morgana stayed with Gwen’s family in a quaint Canadian country cottage for a few days over Christmas, the cottage’s friendly wooden walls big enough to house them and a pine tree covered head to toe in golden tinsel. Morgana knows that they had known each other only a week, but the connection was instant, and she recalls how he was rough and slow all at the same time. It is one of the few names that she will remember when asked about who she ever truly loved.

Lancelot (two weeks) was a thing Morgana had in college, and neither regrets nor pursues. Months before Lance and Gwen had met that day in the library, Morgana had seduced the tenor, brought the almighty to his knees for two effervescent weeks. If she thinks hard, she can recollect the messages left in whiteboard marker inside the doors of each other’s dorm rooms, the late nights as the hours passed unbothered, the chai latte he bought for her once from this one place that she goes back to every time she’s in town. They didn’t speak of the affair again, silently agreeing to forget when Lancelot decided to pursue Gwen for good.  

Urien North (almost, almost two years) was when Morgana was twenty one and full of light. Morgana loved Urien, that much she can be sure of. Urien was composed of foggy condensation on windows, staying up far too late, tracing mindless words onto bare skin. He was the one lover that Morgana brought home to Uther, because she knew that he’d be the one lover her father would ever approve of, with his long words and his quick mind. But time plays cruel tricks on careless girls.

Now Accolon (two days, ongoing) joins the list; the man who could make New York City stop in its tracks with his hair and his jawline and his hands and his gorgeous, gorgeous eyes. The man who could fight the stars and win because he’d outshine them. The man who had stolen Morgana’s heart like a thief in the night and held it in an outstretched palm, ready to crush it with ease if he ever felt the need. The man who stares, inches away from Morgana now, eyes filled with lust and reflecting her dangerous, silent shouts.

_-+-_

The rumour that Broadway stars sound twice as good drunk than sober is true.

The media is a dirty game, hiding away the secrets of anyone it dare haunt. When the media is gone, the stars come out to play.

Percival lets out a particularly amazing rendition of _Corner of the Sky_ after four shots at the start of the evening.  
“You’re doing Schwartz proud,” Gwaine shouts over the crowd of applause. Whoever brought a karaoke machine was doing God’s work.

_-+-_

Being separated from Accolon for four hours since that night at The Sky Deck has been the biggest challenge of Morgana’s life to date.

She parades into the bar, Vera Wang gown traded for a velveteen tease, searching for her prey. Accolon is a willing victim, and the burgundy lipstick stains he’d just gotten off of his jawline creep back as Morgana marks her territory.

He is rough tonight, and he feels like a prize that Morgana has won, all coarse kisses instead of words and wandering hands and not knowing about anything else in the world but the two of them.

Limerence is too nice a word, but the only word true enough.

_-+-_

The running order continues on the small stage, rather comic after Percival had his chance to “blatantly show off his belting,” (Morgana) even though “he’s the hottest ticket on Broadway and you’re saving yourself two hundred bucks.” (Leon.)

Gwaine gets up next, with a side splitting rendering of _Popular_ (he gets Morgause up to play her _actual_ role) in which he almost breaks a window somehow.

Gwen, in a form of revenge for Gwaine stealing her show, steals his thunder with a version of _C’est Moi,_ which makes Arthur’s head turn. After all, _Camelot_ was his favourite show to be in, and the number never gets old. Especially with Gwen’s particularly filthy “ _And here I stand/As pure as a prayer/Incredibly clean, with virtue to spare.”_ Lancelot almost chokes on his drink. Small cinnamon roll Gwen just winks at him.

Next is _Mordred,_ pure, silent, innocent Mordred, with the most intense delivery of _Sweet Transvestite_ anyone who had been anywhere near _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ had ever seen. Leon almost runs from the room, claiming that he “needs to wash his eyes out with soap.”

And Morgana gets to live her dream as she takes the microphone from Mordred. She runs through throes of Sondheim’s finest soprano excerpts, with Cinderella’s extravagant solo from _Into the Woods._ She is as fine in voice and acting as any of the other Broadway stars who had performed, undoubtedly so. But the time for her performance career is over, and now is not the time to grieve it.   

Arthur takes the stage, and Gwaine returns, for an overly vocal execution of _Agony,_ complete with shirt ripping, sliding across the room on their knees, and irresistibly gorgeous high notes. Even Gwaine’s previous semi-professional career as a gymnast returns, which is the surprise of the evening, that is, until Morgana and Gwen return for _Agony (Reprise.)_

_-+-_

Arthur doesn’t drink tonight.

He’s not in the mood for it; he drinks to celebrate and as of now his heart is far too heavy for any form of celebration. It sounds pathetic, he knows, and he just hopes that nobody asks him why he’s sulking in the corner. Truth be told, nobody _needs_ to ask.

“Mourning is _not_ a good look on you, brother,” Morgana slides onto the stool next to him at the bar, offering him the remnants of whatever drink she was on. Arthur shakes his head and Morgana’s offer retreats. “Each to their own,” she raises her hands high and shouts, returning to the centre of the affair, deciding that she’d left Accolon for too long.

Arthur looks pointedly down, examining the grain of the wood his hands rest on. He washes his gaze back and forth over the thin lines, knowing that if he looked anywhere else his eyes would instinctively find the one person he didn’t want to see.

_-+-_

“Merlin, you’re drunk,” Gwen pushes him in the side.

Merlin pouts in disbelief. He never get drunk, particularly not at birthday parties. He’s the responsible friend, the mom friend dealing with everyone (Gwaine) when _they’re_ drunk.

So he says, “I’m not drunk,” and walks to the other side of the room in a decently straight line, he thinks, to prove his point. Gwen leaves him be, so the line must’ve been as straight as Arthur thought he was in high school.

All his thoughts are about fucking Arthur Pendragon.

Merlin modifies the statement; most of his thoughts are about Arthur fucking Pendragon, and the rest of them are about _fucking_ Arthur Pendragon.

Merlin thinks he should get a job where he can exploit his true talents as a wordsmith.

Even though Arthur is on the complete opposite side of the bar to him, and Merlin is enveloped in a tight circuit of his closest friends, all he can see is Arthur. The spotlights bouncing off of his golden hair. The way his thumb runs along his jawline as his neck hangs. The way his lips curve downwards when Morgana goes to confront him. Merlin squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to escape, but Arthur is still there, limned in the darkness of the back of his eyelids.

Maybe if Merlin had some basic human decency, he would’ve gone to the bar, sat down next to Arthur, and spoken to him. Sorted things out, gotten things back to normal, or at least to a state where his job wasn’t the most painful thing in the world to do every single day.

But Merlin is thankful that he’s in walking distance of his apartment, so he walks and he walks and he doesn’t look back.

_-+-_

Lance sees fireworks whenever he kisses Gwen.

The firework show is different for him every time, dazzling aquamarines and violets as her fingers lace slowly through his hair, a burning vermillion and crimsons when she smiles against his mouth.

The fireworks stain him, the tingling tattooed into his lips. He knows that fireworks were by legend invented by a Chinese chef in a field kitchen, when charcoal, sulphur, and saltpetre found their way to each other. Lance would like to debate this, laying down Gwen’s claim to the first fireworks he ever felt.

_-+-_

Arthur doesn’t remember turning around, but he remembers seeing everyone in their own worlds. He sees Lance spinning Gwen slowly under his arm, swaying side to side under the soft patterns of the light. He winces slightly when his eyes fall on Morgana and Accolon in the centre of the room, illicit smiles and hungry eyes, dancing. He finds Gwaine in the corner, gaze locked with one of the swings he recognises from the _Les Misérables_ ensemble. Even Mordred has a girl from their _Wicked_ ensemble (Arthur searches for her name in his mind – soprano 1 track, costumes in the left wing, downstage in the finale – _Kara)_ tangled in his arms, and Mordred smiles gently into her hair. He also has time enough to see the heavy door swallowing up a red scarf and hair synonymised with the black of midnight before it slams, a warning.

_-+-_

Merlin has the keys to the rooftop of his apartment block, though he has never felt the need to use them. But he does tonight.

New York City doesn’t understand what night means. Once, Merlin dreamed of a vibrant sunset, rocking chairs on a wide open balcony, birds the only music to fittingly accompany the peace and the stars all determined to outshine each other, vessels of beauty in an otherwise clear, pink-tinged sky. But Merlin grew up. And moved to New York.

His nights are completely different; a cacophony of limitless noise, no matter how far up you reach. Usually, the noise comforts him, surrounding him, enveloping him up in a warm embrace of security in telling him that there are still other people there. But tonight the noises blur together, a constant buzz in the back of Merlin’s head. Maybe it’s because of the thick, ugly stain of alcohol on his breath. Maybe it’s the loneliness setting in.

He is at the edge before he knows it, the only thing separating him from a three-hundred foot drop a thin metal railing holding him up.

It’s late, he knows that much, his hands are too cold, and he’s sitting on the railing. It’s funny from this angle, he thinks, that his feet are so much bigger than the cars trying to whisper along whatever avenue dares lie below him. Maybe they’re trying to run away, away from the sickly embraces of the unescapable city.

“You’re crazy,” he says out loud. “Merlin Emrys, you are crazy and you are going to die.”

But the words don’t sting in the way he thought they would. He is numb, so numb and so cold, and has a vague recollection of leaving the rooftop door unlocked and of only one man alive knowing how to find his apartment in the dark. He remembers this now because there are strong arms around his waist pulling him back and he sees a flash of gold – the sun, perhaps? – before he is loosely aware that he is sitting, sitting on cold hard tiles, craving something that he can’t put into words.

 

Merlin thinks that many things taste good. Red Velvet cookies, for example, are his favourite. He knows that Arthur has a thing for Caramel Apple Crisps, which Merlin completely understands, just as Gwen has her Funfetti and Morgana her Rocky Road. Merlin also likes sweet and sour pork, McDonald’s hash browns, and the comforting miasma of alcohol lurking inside his mouth. He also imagines that Arthur’s lips would taste rather nice as well, like the tinges of a golden sunset, the American Dream, a flawlessly executed coloratura passage. And caramel.

Merlin also likes to combine some his favourite tastes. A good combination, he remembers, is sweet and sour pork for dinner from the Chinese place down the road with a Red Velvet to top it off. A combination to rival that, he learns tonight, is the sacred haze of two AM alcohol and the salted caramel of Arthur’s lips.

_-+-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im SORRY (but please leave comments i love comments !!)
> 
> fun fact: the abridged list of morgana's lovers is based very heavily on legend !!!


	12. caramel apple crisp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little bit of broadway stuff !!  
> if you've heard of into the woods, you've probably heard of it because of the big disney movie they made recently, but into the woods was originally a broadway blockbuster by the god we call stephen sondheim. it's about the tales of a witch, cinderella, rapunzel, little red riding hood and jack and the beanstalk all tied together by the quest of a baker and his wife to have a child by lifting a curse on their house. it explores life and death and love and betrayal and belonging and everything you could ever want in a musica; and is a wickedly hard show to sing for most characters (on the steps of the palace is mammoth which i can say from experience) and literally there's a recording of the original broadway cast on youtube. watch it its one of my favourite shows of all time
> 
> although beware the confusion between cinderella in cinderella and cinderella in into the woods - big difference even though arthur's been the 'same character' in both shows!  
> the character Ella/Cinderella in "Cinderella" by Rodgers and Hammerstein is 100% your more fairytale glass slippers and princesses Cinderella - Arthur played Prince Topher/Prince Charming in this show in university.  
> the character Cinderella in Into the Woods (ITW) by Stephen Sondheim is 100% not your glass slipper princess - she's a broken girl who tries to pick herself up into a life that she's content with. plus, she wears golden slippers this time around. her prince in this show isn't called charming, though he completely is by all means charming, but simply Cinderella's Prince.

**chapter eleven / caramel apple crisp**

If Merlin were in charge of casting Into the Woods, this is how the cast would follow:

Gwen plays the Baker’s Wife. She is on top of all the quick runs and octave leaps. She stands backstage, spinning thousands of times in her bland calico dresses, humbly amused by how the skirt piles up when she stops moving before falling back to its place.

Lancelot plays the Baker, not just for the sake of pairing him off with Gwen or his exquisite tenor range or the fact that Merlin would pay good money to watch him lament about bread and cheese, but because Merlin thinks that Lance exemplifies the Baker in his day to day life – a lover, not a fighter, overprotective, defensive. He imagines Lance parading across the stage in victory and high notes, and the tragedy of the second act enveloped in his kobicha eyes.

Mordred plays Jack. The small boy making his way in the world, dreams (and hair) stretching into the heavens. The spotlight, upstage left, as he discovers the realm above his own seems to shine down only on Mordred, in Merlin’s mind, and the carrot-coloured wig that he might be forced into brings a smile to Merlin’s face.

He casts Morgana as the witch. Merlin is well aware of the fact that _vocally_ Morgana sits right in Cinderella’s range, but so far his casting has only luckily fit with Sondheim’s extravagant score and desperate overemployment of tenors. Merlin sees the Witch in Morgana, who gets what she wants, no matter what it takes. People listen to her, words infectious, with the ability to kill in the blink of an eye. She also shares striking resemblance in personality with Bernadette Peters, Merlin had learned, which definitely didn’t hurt. Maybe someone else would better fit Cinderella, the girl with the hole in her chest that nothing could truly fill. 

Morgause is Rapunzel, if not for her hair basically eliminating the need for a wig, or for her soprano – high b flats galore – but simply for the sake of Merlin listening to her complain overdramatically about the costumes, the floor length dresses and the too-tight corsets that she’d refuse to wear, before Sondheim personally called up and forced her into them himself.

Little Red is harder to cast – Merlin eventually settles on Nimueh, the precious hopeless romantic skipping through the woods, red hood floating on her shoulders. He doesn’t give much other rhyme or reason to it, other than the fact that he can see the girl on stage in costume already, with pigtails plaited and weaved basket full to the brim with snickerdoodles.

The Princes are by far the easiest to cast.

Gwaine makes a perfect Rapunzel’s Prince, belted up into the _very_ well designed costume, if Merlin does say so, tall boots and sword fastened to his waist. The lewd jokes seem to find their home on Gwaine’s tongue, the seduction of a battalion of young princesses at home in his character description.

Arthur plays Cinderella’s Prince. Merlin has a very strict criteria for this role, it always having been his favourite. Stellar ability to belt and _sustain_ long and strong high notes, check. Amusing pout fixating and well enough timed to bring an audience rolling back in night after night, most probably another check, but Merlin can’t provide concrete evidence for this one. And Cinderella’s Prince _has_ to be hot. For Arthur, that’s a given. But Merlin can _see_ Arthur in the role, prancing downstage as he carts off stepsister after stepsister to his palace. He can see Arthur leaning against the ornamented tower, upstage left, broad shoulders filling out his costume with pride. He can see his piercing eyes matching the brandeis blue of the tacky, metallic buttons on his waistcoat. He can see his golden hair brushed too carelessly out of the way, shirt ragged and with blood in his pinkened lips as he leaves the Baker’s Wife in the middle of the woods. He can see the look that he gives his princess on their wedding day; the look that one could study for their whole life and still never be able to put into words.

Into the Woods was the first show Merlin ever saw; a high school production close to home that inspired him to both write like Sondheim and indulge in the lavish costumes that swirled across the stage. If asked about the one show he’d watch for the rest of his life, he’d answer, very promptly, _Into the Woods._

He hasn’t casted Cinderella. Merlin decides that he’d very much like to play the role, ambivalent between his handsome, charming prince, and the life he might endure without him. It sounds like an easy enough choice, but Merlin knows the show back to front. He could sing it in his sleep. _Where you’re safe, out of sight, and yourself, but where everything’s wrong? Or where everything’s right but you’ll know that you’ll never belong?_

He imagines himself putting up a casting notice for Cinderella, imagines something pulling at his heart when he watches Arthur marry the lucky girl eight times a week.  

 

_-+-_

Merlin wakes up alone.

Not particularly alone, because Merlin always wakes up alone, but he has the distinct feeling of someone filling the empty space in his chest from last night.

Or maybe that feeling is just hangover induced.

But there is a Red Velvet sitting on his bedside table that he doesn’t remember putting there himself, and Merlin thinks that this must be some cruel joke.

_-+-_

Time passes, as it has a habit of doing, and Merlin finds himself standing outside the stagedoor of the Gershwin.

He checks his phone for the time – 5:28. His call time is 5:30. Going in now would make him two whole minutes early, and he has a reputation to uphold.

He turns around and walks down the road instead.

_-+-_

Sunday evening shows are usually the least popular in terms of ticket sales, so it is the night when understudies come out to play.

_-+-_

When Morgana wakes up the next morning, the bed is a little sticky and she twists herself to evade the slightly inconveniencing texture. She can’t really complain if she played a part in creating the problem.

She analyses the scene, light leaking through the blinds, serenity layering lightly through the room. Both of them lying there, silent, with their dreams of being a star shattered by a Pendragon and his son.

Morgana doesn’t have time to let the sun soak in through her skin, even with the best birthday present she’s ever received still asleep next to her. She has a report due first thing tomorrow, and any reporter who wishes to be successful on Broadway must consider each and every one of their words.

She dresses, kisses Accolon lazily on the forehead, and walks out the door before he wakes up.

_-+-_

At 5:43, Merlin stands outside the stagedoor again.

He knows plain and simple why he didn’t walk straight in before – not for the sake of being late, but the fact that he is afraid.

He is, for the first time in his life, so, so afraid of seeing Arthur. Not of speaking to him – heaven forbid they communicate – but just seeing him after the twenty nine shows of not speaking and avoiding eye contact after what he remembers of _last night_ is enough to make Merlin take a step back from the stagedoor.

Because it’s just his luck, he feels a hand on his back and looks over his shoulder to see Gwen beckoning him inside the theater.

“Come on, Merlin, it’s cold out here.”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that it’d be much colder inside for him.

_-+-_

Merlin marches through the theater’s hallways, almost overdramatically, building up the courage inside him as he finds himself standing outside Arthur’s dressing room, chest puffed up. He takes a deep breath, and another, and another after that, preparing himself for what he’d face on the other side of the door. Maybe Arthur would go on ignoring him. Maybe he’d greet him like he would in the _Camelot_ era, a polite, “good evening, Merlin, Gwen’s mother is in the audience this evening,” or a “I hope you’ve gotten cookies, it’s going to be a rough show tonight,” or even a quaint nod of his head as he holds bobby pins between his teeth, busied with his hair but still appreciative enough to acknowledge Merlin's arrival. Or maybe – Merlin is a dreamer – there would be something more than a _hello_ waiting for him when he swung open the door –

 

“Nice of you to show up, Mer _lin_ ,” Leon says from the chair at the mirror, and Merlin sighs – whether in relief or defeat, he doesn’t know – as he realises that Arthur has taken the show off.

“I like to take my time,” Merlin says, as casual as he can manage, dumping his bag in the corner and going to do his job.

Leon stresses the wrong part of Merlin’s name, he comes to realise, and it makes Merlin more uncomfortable than it should. But he dresses the understudy to the best of his ability nevertheless, though not as smoothly as with the routine he’d developed with Arthur. Leon hasn't been on enough recently for a routine for them to emerge, with other dressers getting the share of most of his Fiyero shows. 

Mordred is a welcome consistency to Merlin's job, and he’d learned to open up to the Boq through the shows. But not like this.

“Do you love Arthur?” he asks, so casually, pressing his curls under his first hat. Merlin drops the pants he’s holding. Mordred purses his lips.  
“I don’t think it’s that hard a question,” he pursues, “are you in love with Arthur?”

Merlin turns to look at the boy; the sweet, shy, boy he barely talked to during his first week on the show, the same boy who gave Kara a literal _lap dance_ while performing _Sweet Transvestite._ The same boy who stands before him now, about to step onstage in one of the most successful musicals of all time, picking a piece of lint off of his striped jacket. Merlin huffs, straightens to his full six-foot-four, ignores the fact that he hasn’t spoken to Arthur in twenty-nine shows’ time, and replies firmly;

“Yes. I am in love with Arthur Pendragon.”

And he smiles. It feels good to say, so he says it again. “I am in _love_ with Arthur Pendragon.”

And again.

“I love Arthur Pendragon.”

He won’t remember how many times he’s said it, but he feels like it almost makes up for the last eight years of pining.

“I love Arthur Pendragon and everything about him,” Merlin says. “I love the way his hair looks when the lights catch his silhouette at just the right angle. I love the way his fingers tap out the orchestra’s rhythms on his thigh four bars, and only four bars, before he runs onstage. I love the way he spends so long with his fans at stagedoor, even if that means I get hypothermia and die young, suffering a long, horrible death. I love Arthur and how he knows everyone’s favourite dumb cookies and knows when we’re down and exactly when we need a pick-me-up. I love him and his dumb bottle of lavender oil that I almost knock over every time I go into that dumb dressing room. I love him and the fact that he’s mentioned me, dumb little me, ‘ _that idiot Merlin_ ,’ in every one of his dumb biographies they print in his dumb playbills. I remember the day he made his Broadway debut in _Les Mis_ and Morgana got him this dumb bouquet of yellow roses because she’s so invested in that dumb Victorian flower language, and they meant congratulations on his highest achievement or something equally as dumb, and Arthur plucked one of the dumb flowers straight out and stuck it into my dumb  _hair_ like I was some primadonna, completely ignoring the fact that roses have thorns and that they’d prick my _head_ when he shoved the dumb stalk at my face.”

Merlin exhales slowly. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, not looking at Mordred, as he falls into silence and pushes a handful of hangers to one side of a rack.

“It’s okay,” he hears, and those are the two words that change Merlin’s life.

They change his life because it’s not Mordred who says them, and by Merlin’s check there is nobody else in the room. He knows who says them straight away and yet he has to wait for too much time to pass until he's certain. The words come with the wistful smell of lavender and salted caramel and broad shoulders leaning against the doorframe of Mordred’s dressing room and Merlin turns around to find the striking brandeis blue and messy blonde hair and _that_ look in the eyes of his Prince.  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorter chapter after the drama of the previous ones. thanks for your comments :))
> 
> (you may notice how much i love itw cinderella it's crazy)


	13. chocolate explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guessed it broadway time:  
> jason robert brown: actually my favourite composer of all time: his works are very contemporary and modern and include the two-person musical "the last five years" (please please watch the movie if you need something to watch ever) the song cycle "songs for a new world" etc - he writes such moving pieces with gorgeous words and technically amazing music that makes you thin how a person could ever possibly think of writing that but it's so good
> 
> rodgers and hammerstein: a musical partnership deemed the best of the 20th century from which we get musicals like the sound of music and cinderella and oklahoma! and lots of classics and stuff; a much more classical musical style (you probably know the sound of music)
> 
> freshman induction is a thing I stole from a bit of speech on aaron tveit's album; the first day of college for musical theatre majors, they all have to sing a song in front of everybody (you can imagine how horrifying it is trying to impress everyone on your first day oh man)

**chapter twelve / chocolate explosion**

“My name is Accolon Gaul,” he says, “and my name is all I own.”

He lays down his heart at the feet of his peers, making out freshman induction to be just as horrifying as he thought it would be. Everyone sings, a hundred musical theatre students trying to make good impressions on the very first day, to determine who eats who in their invisible hierarchy for the next four years.

“Tenor,” he states, slowly ascending to centre stage, “and I’ll be performing _King of the World_ by Jason Robert Brown, from _Songs For A New World_.”

He hears the whispers, of course he hears the whispers – “he’s the scholarship kid,” “the scholarship kids always sing Jason Robert Brown, they don’t know anything else,” “we might as well kick out the scholarship kids while we can.” But he ignores them as he takes the final steps required to reach centre stage. The piano fades in and the rest of the world fades out.

_Once upon a time I had tides to control_  
I had moons to spin  
And stars to ignite  
And they threw flowers at my feet  
When I walked through the town.

The auditorium is quiet, the whispers erased in his first verse. Accolon loves the song. He wants to sing it for the rest of his life, running straight from the last whisper of the piano straight back to his first line, on a loop in his head towards infinity.

_Let me out of here_  
Give me back all my dreams  
Let me out of here  
Let me please see the sun  
Let me out of here  
At least tell me what I did wrong.

And he yearns, his velvet voice climbing into the hollow hearts of his audience, the audience that he’d spend the next four and a half minutes serving, bringing them to their knees.

_I’m king of the world_  
Chief of the sea  
High in the wind  
At least I used to be. 

There’s a girl in the front row with her mouth hanging open, but Accolon doesn’t see her. His eyes are looking too far up to notice the front row.

_And I’m king of the world_  
Please set me free  
Let me remind them of my promise  
Live my given destiny.

It’s Arthur Pendragon a few rows from the back – it’s _Arthur Pendragon_ and he is _singing_ to _Arthur Pendragon_ – but Accolon is too deep into the song to think that Arthur Pendragon could ever sing it even an itch like he can.

_Why are we punished for wanting to explore?_  
Why am I sitting in this cell?  
I was not challenging the system  
I was working for the people  
I just wanted to be better  
Why are we punished for wanting to survive?  
Why am I locked behind these bars?

This is the strongest love he will ever feel. He feels his legs rooted so strongly into the dark lure of the stage, a power pulsing through his body and through the roof of the theater.

_And we’ll lift our eyes_  
And raise our heads  
And face the sun  
And tell the future;  
I’m king of the world  
Land of the free  
High in the sky  
The best that I can be

He knows that Jason Robert Brown songs are ruled straight out of everyone’s audition repertoire. But he can see the sixty students already reconsidering that rule.

_And I’m king of the world!_  
Watch and you’ll see  
Nothing can stop me from tomorrow,  
Keep me from my destiny. 

He’s doing it – he’s living the dream, arms raised, belting high C’s like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He sees the jealous baritones with their arms crossed, the hungry eyes of the sopranos in the centre of the auditorium, the vocal coaches off to the side, pens hanging slack and idle from their hands.

_I’m king of the world_  
I’m king of the world  
I’m… I’m…

And his eye is drawn back to the likes of Arthur Pendragon and the side of his head currently presented to the stage, mouth moving as he whispers uselessly to the girl in the seat next to him. And how the next four years of Accolon’s life will play out sinks slowly into his veins.

_At least I used to be._

_-+-_

Merlin has imagined this day many times over, but he never imagines his best days to their fullest potential.

_-+-_

“I get Mondays off now,” Arthur’s voice is crackled through Merlin’s battered, second-hand phone.

It melts Merlin’s poor, small heart to hear his silken voice through it again. Of course, he knows the phone doesn’t do it justice, but Arthur is _speaking to him_ , the words reserved for him and only him, and Merlin indulges in every word, (just in case he loses them again.)

“Which means show night,” Merlin brings himself back to earth and sticks to the script.  
“No,” Arthur says, “I wanted to try something a little different tonight.”  
“Whatever you say. It’s my job to do what you say,” Merlin feels a little giddy inside. But it’s the best feeling in the world, and he feels like a child on Christmas Eve again.

_-+-_

_the brooklyn bridge park, six pm_

The stars are bright but Arthur’s smile is brighter, Merlin remembers. They’re _sort_ of holding hands, Arthur pulling Merlin along by a few interlocked fingers. It’s not a strong pull, but Merlin doesn’t need much of a cue to follow Arthur.

“Close your eyes,” Arthur had said, as soon as they’d step foot in the Brooklyn Bridge Park. Merlin obeyed. “It’s going to be a surprise.”  
Arthur had sounded so determined to make the night perfect, for Merlin, a perfect night for the both of them. Merlin hadn’t known what it _was,_ at first, but when he felt Arthur’s fingers tangling in with his own, lightly, nervously, his suspicions were set. Merlin’s lips unfurl into a wide smile without him telling them to, filling up his face.

Arthur had directed him quite awkwardly, to be frank, through the park, Merlin’s long legs in the habit of stumbling over air. But Arthur had waited for him, never daring to let his hand go for the fear of being apart and having to pick it back up again. Arthur has spent too many years separate from Merlin. There’s not going to be another day, another hour of that.

“Arthur, I am literally going to lose a leg if I don’t open my eyes,” Merlin complains, thoroughly elated, causing Arthur to pout before he remembers Merlin can’t see him.  
“Not long to go,” Arthur steers Merlin tragically around a final bend in the path, “three, two one,” he lines up Merlin’s lanky frame, “open.”

“You _dollophead,_ ” Merlin enunciates, “what kind of _overromantic sap_ do you take me for?”

He then proceeds to kiss Arthur with the light of a thousand suns then and there, so maybe he doesn’t have the right to complain.

They stand before Jane’s Carousel, the delightfully restored carousel tinkling gently before them, bathed weakly with ethereal fairy lights. Tucked under the Bridge, the carousel seems straight out of a high-budget rom-com, the perfect rendezvous for the wretchedly tortured star crossed lovers. Merlin’s heart flutters as he takes in the saccharine music swimming around the two of them, leaving him in a fantastical daze. He’s still leaning against Arthur’s chest, arms tucked around his shoulders. Maybe, in another life, he would’ve stepped back, folded his awkward arms neatly across his stomach and looked down at his feet for a while. But in this life, he loves Arthur and Arthur loves him, and he’s going to make that last for as long as he can.

They take their two-dollar twirl on the ride, Arthur mounting a fiery steed on the outer ring of the carousel without hesitation, offering an arm in assistance as Merlin rose to the saddle of the mare with the silver mane next to him, bridle laced with moonlight. It’s the most stupidly perfect thing, Merlin thinks, the two of them going around in circles on dazzlingly painted wooden horses, fingers still too scared to leave each other’s.

Arthur rides his horse like Merlin assumes a king would, mounted high in the saddle, back straight, right hand holding the perfect ratio of wooden mane to reins. His horse is draped in exquisite saddlery, rich greens and fire reds and golden tassels swathed over its chestnut coat.

Merlin’s mare shimmers, flowing mane mixed with gleaming scales, holographic in the pale lights. He rides far less majestically than Arthur, right hand resting on his horse’s neck, left hand hanging off to the side until Arthur swoops it up in his own.

It’s quite funny, to them, that their horses go up and down at different times and their connected hand has to accommodate for the height difference. It makes Merlin giggle, and Arthur’s consistent smile widens, as Merlin ascends and leaves Arthur looking up at him. It doesn’t bother Arthur; he could stare at Merlin all day, and his smile, and the little crinkles in the corner of his eyes, and the way he throws his head back a little when he laughs, and that captivating turn of his head he does that makes the world spin in slow motion when he returns to meet Arthur’s gaze.  

Merlin credits Arthur with the carousel being the impeccable first date – _first date!_ \- idea. It strikes something deep in Merlin’s heart, something he hadn’t noticed before, the faintest sense of déjà vu when he’d mounted his horse. That it just felt _right_ to be riding beside Arthur, like thousands of years had led him to this moment, warmth spreading over the emptiness in his chest. And he is happy – he is so, so, completely happy, when he smiles against Arthur’s lips in the Manhattan moonlight.

_-+-_

They spend the night weaving between streets and dancing along footpaths, feeling like the both of them together were entirely unlike the both of them apart.  Cold and tall apart, the two of them melted together, combined in a song of two worlds; a strong melody, soaring and intangible, of the utmost technical difficulty daring to climb high above the sedated rhythms accompanying it. And a harmony, low and full, completing authentic cadences and filling in the holes in the melody with whimsical quavers.

Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote of fantasy and love. They wrote structured rhyming schemes enveloped in age-defying tunes, a militaristic method set of lyrics tied with twine to the soprano’s audition book – _mouse_ and _house_ , _air_ and _chair_ , _fun_ and _gun_. Typified by arms encased in long white gloves, strictly choreographed routines consistent from premiere to revival, and exclamation marks at the end of italicised titles.

Jason Robert Brown writes of suffering and heartbreak. He stretches out and grabs the hearts of anyone who dares to listen – taunting and twisting them until they surrender to his impulsive chords, fingers dancing up and down the keys of a second-hand piano. He cries in his music, soul bared to the modern world through the lips of a struggling twenty-six year old actress, a preacher with too many years to remember to his name, a suicidal widow standing a thousand feet above her demise. Dangerous rhythms daring to break outside the box, complex time signatures competing with accidentals on the stave, welcome _rubato_ markings littering the manuscript, completely strange yet undeniably perfect at the same time.

Maybe, Merlin thinks, their score looks like a Rodgers and Hammerstein song.

But they sound like a Jason Robert Brown one.

_-+-_

They finish the night at Schmackary’s, Merlin looking at Arthur between his heavy eyelashes and his Red Velvet. Arthur gets a Chocolate Explosion, a piece of which he offers to Merlin, because he “has to care about you now,” and “you never get anything with chocolate in it, which is stupid, first of all.”

“If you ever ventured so far as to taste anything without caramel or chocolate,” Merlin debates, “you’d uncover the hidden jewel that I have been harvesting the joys of for years.” He brandishes his Red Velvet like a strange sort of weapon.

_-+-_

_Songs For A New World_ is the last show that Accolon directs in college.

He listens to Arthur singing _his_ song every night. How _dare_ Arthur be king of the world when he was supposed to be; arms flung out in triumph and hidden away in defeat in the span of four and a half short minutes.

Arthur doesn’t sing it as well as Accolon did, because it was Accolon’s song and when he sang it he _was_ king of the world, completely awake and indulged in the life the stage brought to him. King of the world in the way that he brought the hearts of audiences to their knees during a show and then to their feet for a standing ovation only thirty minutes later. In the way that he had everything he needed, though with minimal material possession, the stage nurtured him because _he was the king of the world._

_At least he used to be._


	14. the graceland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only very few broadway nerd things: sometimes the broadway community does open air concerts in big public spaces just to reward the general population with the presence of musical theatre. these are always very popular and amazing and wowza  
> in the phantom of the opera, the female lead Christine Daae sings freakishly high notes for a freakishly long time, the most famous being the sustained high e (very high) that every soprano aspires to reach honestly (very hard to do)
> 
> usually, shows with a big emphasis on fight scenes have a fight captain, just like shows with big dance numbers have a dance captain. these are usually members of the ensemble who are particularly experienced with such disciplines.
> 
> and "anything you can do" is yes, the song that you're thinking of right now.

**chapter thirteen / the graceland**

Arthur’s first memory is of a pantomime he did when he was six.

He is the prince, adorned with a red velvet cape flowing from his neck to his throne to the floor, crown mounted slightly crookedly on his head. He remembers the wooden chair covered in golden tin-foil from head to toe, that Arthur hated accidentally brushing off because it clung to his arms. He remembers Morgana sitting next to their father in the middle of the second row -  _ the first row is too forward, too direct, the second row is a more refined viewing position, _ Uther had said - clad in her white crocheted dress lined with expensive exotic laces, ballet flats replacing the kitten heels she’d begged to wear. Her hands clung tightly to the two paper tickets, eyes wide with wonder as she took in the scenes of love and death and battling knights.

Arthur remembers having to get married to his queen, and having rehearsed that scene over and over again until it was perfect in the eyes of his director. He grew sick and tired of it very easily, the sappy lines haunting his performance, very mechanical solely in that one scene. He remembers watching the knights practicing their fights over and over, swords flying and crashing against each other, clanging noisily with each flick of the wrist. Arthur got his fight scenes, plenty of them, but he also had to get married to a girl and read long speeches and deal with people who didn’t have the same interests as he did. And the knights just got to fight, twirling their plastic swords dramatically, clad in fake chainmail. Maybe Arthur had been the star of the show, but that’d never stopped him from meeting up with his knights after rehearsal, begging them to teach him their fight routines.

 

Arthur, at twenty four, is fight captain for most of his shows now.

_ -+- _

_ monday morning, playbill.com headquarters _

Morgana publishes her report first thing Monday morning.

It’s lucky, she thinks, that she met Accolon at work - this means that they don’t have to part the whole day without Morgana feeling guilty about her thoughts being amiss while she works. 

She is productive as she can possibly be until eleven, when his arms come creeping around her neck, wrapping her up in his warmth. She leans back in her chair, trying to soak up his presence, feeling a smile take over her face. 

“You’ve got an interview tomorrow,” Accolon whispers into her hair, pressing his lips to her forehead. “You should be finishing up your notes for that.”   
“These past two hours I’ve been more productive than I’ve been in years,” Morgana argues, but it sounds nothing like arguing. She feels her arms reach up to lock Accolon’s in place just in case he dare escape, running her fingers up and down from his shoulder to his elbow and back again. She didn’t need to, for the fact that Accolon is completely under her spell, obligated to follow her to the ends of the earth and then to places even the universe can’t confine them to. She feels like she has all the time in the world, wrapped up securely in his arms, a present preserved for millennia among the finest specimens museums around the world would fight for. 

“I’m coming back when you’ve finished your notes,” Accolon begins the arduous task of untwining himself from Morgana’s captive hold, tapping her lightly on the head with quick fingers where his lips had been only moments before. . Morgana whines in protest as his arms slip away, inch by inch, her fingers slowly following his path of departure. “Your  _ notes, _ ” Accolon repeats, pointing and raising his eyebrows as he walks away backwards, accomplished inside as Morgana pouts and grumbles at his retreat. 

Morgana’s fingers substitute Accolon’s warmth for her keyboard, tapping out each word heavily.

_ -+- _

_ tuesday morning, merlin’s apartment, sunnyside.  _

Merlin’s fingers substitute Arthur’s warmth for his keyboard, tapping tapping out each note heavily. 

Arthur had left at twelve, kisses lingering on Merlin’s forehead, muttering excuses of a matinee and that his dedication to the arts was so strong that he’d leave what he’d waited years for to be in his first show of the day. He’d also brought up the idea that he  _ could  _ call Leon in for a show or two or twenty, but Merlin had pointed out that he’d taken three shows off in the past week, a new record for him. 

“I don’t want to  _ go, _ ” Arthur whines, fingers running lightly through Merlin’s hair.   
“Go forth and conquer,” Merlin whispers, “the show must go on.”

Arthur groans and drags himself out of bed. “Break a leg,” Merlin shouts from where he sits upright in bed when he hears the door open. Arthur hesitates, standing for a moment in the doorway, stranded between turning back and burying himself in Merlin’s arms forever or getting on with the show.    
“Get on with it,” Merlin reads his mind, “Broadway’s missed out on your ass for too long.”   
“Then again, so have you,” Arthur teases, and Merlin falls backwards onto the bed when he hears the door slam shut. 

_ -+- _

_ uther’s penthouse, apartment 3031, 795 fifth avenue, upper east side _

Morgana is a product of this world, young and unburdened by what her elders try to break her with. She is a youth of the contemporary, arms flung open, chest unprotected, ready to deflect whatever the world is brave enough to throw at her. She is built on layers and layers of abstractions and emotions, numb to the accused crime of cannibalism her intransigent passions inflict on her society. She stands too tall and strong for her own good, defiant to and through the moment her neck is pressed to the blade of the guillotine with her name engraved on it. 

This is what Accolon tells her as she grips his hand too tightly, raising a finger to ring the doorbell.

_ -+- _

_ outside the playbill.com headquarters, manhattan _

“795 Fifth Avenue,” Accolon says the address aloud as he types it into his phone, “apartment 3031, Upper East Side.”

Morgana sits in the driver’s seat. She owns a car and lives in Manhattan, seemingly an obvious paradox, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. She feels at home driving her own car, the familiar scent of the interior, the sound of the engine, the lame radio stations she always seems to leave on. She finds a way to navigate the havoc of the city, avoiding the tight-spots, speeding past battered Delaware number plates. Maybe driving in the city is a nightmare, but maybe Morgana grew up with nightmares and she loves them anyway. 

“This  _ is  _ your time to back out, you know,” Morgana offers as she starts to turn the wheel, taking on the peak hour Manhattan traffic.   
“Let me get this straight,” Accolon leans back in the rich leather seat, “you’ve brought  _ one  _ partner back to your father. Ever.”   
“Correct.”   
“And this was after you’d dated him for practically two years.”   
“Correct.”   
“And this was a guy that you were sure that your father was going to, for lack of a better word, tolerate.”   
“Amazing,” Morgana’s eyes don’t flicker from the road, “you’re on a roll.”   
“And you are taking  _ me _ ,” Accolon gestures at himself, though very aware of the fact that Morgana isn’t looking at him for once, “who you have known for what, four weeks -”   
“I’ve also been kind of fucking you senseless for the past five days,” Morgana chimes casually, flicking on an indicator light. Accolon folds his limbs back in, calming down.

“That is true,” he says softly after a while, looking down at the glove box. 

“Come on,” Morgana takes one hand from its place on the steering wheel and seeks out Accolon’s instead, “it’s not just us. There’s more family. It’ll be fine, it’s not even about  _ us _ , it’s about my  _ dead mother _ .”   
“Uther Pendragon and the man whose career was destroyed by his son, talking about his deceased wife. Perfect.”   
Morgana doesn’t answer. She rubs stars into Accolon’s hand while she is stopped, hand returning to the wheel when the traffic starts to lighten down the avenue. 

_ -+- _

Uther recognises him without Morgana saying a word.

“Accolon Gaul,” Uther says calmly, almost blankly. “A pleasure.”

He extends a hand, which Accolon shakes firmly, officially, strategically. Morgana follows every move and every word of the conversation.    
“A pleasure, Mr Pendragon.” Accolon nods his head slightly, out of respect, a good move.    
Uther pauses. Morgana knows he will either say, “ _ ‘Uther’ will do just fine,”  _ (a bad sign; where Uther doesn’t hold his formalities, nothing can go right) or hold his tongue (a good sign; the fewer words out of him the better.) The latter comes, and Morgana quickly takes Accolon by the hand and steers both of them past the foyer of the penthouse and through to the dining room.

“Still in once piece,” she whispers soothingly into Accolon’s shoulder.   
“Let’s see how long we can keep that up,” he replies, squeezing her hand as they find their places on the table. 

_ -+- _

Merlin is slightly afraid of getting his back slammed straight into the wall and kissed senseless, he realises, as he swings open the stage door that afternoon. Wary of the reality that he might be shoved up against the dressing room door, wandering hands plagued with hair gel and forehead microphones leaving indents in his skin. Merlin slides his backpack off of his shoulder - he doesn’t remember where - and crinkles the blue and white striped paper bag in his hand a little as he approaches the dressing room in question. He'd picked out something new today from Schmackary's - The Graceland had always sounded like a good idea, bacon and peanut butter and chocolate sounded foolproof, and Cookie Dough seemed like the only logical partner. 

He opens the door, is greeted with a sensible “‘bout time you got ‘ere,  _ ‘er _ lin,” from a bobby-pin filled mouth, and gets about his job. 

_ -+- _

“As you know, we are here to commemorate the anniversary of the passing of one we all held dear to us many years ago and forevermore in our hearts, Mrs Igraine Pendragon,” Uther stands at the head of the table, one hand supporting him from the polished wooden surface. “Beloved to us all, whether wife, mother, sister, we will fill this gathering of remembrance with celebration of her life rather than grievance of her death.”

Morgana looks down at the table, and the hundreds of dollars worth of silver cutlery and ceramics set out before each person. Accolon rubs her hand from underneath the table.

“I’ll also be formally excusing the absence of my son, Arthur Pendragon,” Uther continues, “the life of an actor stops for no one, and that is how Igraine would’ve wanted it.” He is stiff, still, seeing years of memories running like a film through the back of his eyes. The congregation around the table watches him intensely, waiting for a cue of any description. But he sits, back straight, and gestures to a nearby butler that the first course should be taken out when ready.

_ -+- _

Her mother died when she was four. Arthur had gotten eleven months.

Igraine Gorlois - the darling soprano of the twentieth century - dead at twenty seven. 

Morgana remembers her mother running through scales with her, the young girl daring to match her mother’s incredible range in only a few years of training. She remembers sitting backstage during her mother’s run starring in  _ The Phantom of the Opera,  _ high e’s never failing to raise goosebumps on her cold arms. She remembers walking out of the stagedoor after a  _ Les Miserables  _ matinee, arm reaching up to cling to her mother’s hand, delighting the fans with her adorable dresses and braids. She remembers going to a solo show in Central Park - they didn’t have 54 Below in those days - the open air concert attracting thousands of theatre fans from across the country. She joined her mother onstage, singing to the crowd, the sweetest rendition of  _ Anything You Can Do  _ the world had ever heard. And the last time that the world would ever hear either of them sing. 

Maybe she could’ve been remembered as Morgana Pendragon - the darling soprano of the twenty-first century, but history isn’t always kind. 

_ -+- _

Gwen confronts Merlin straight after the show. 

She’s still covered in her green paint, dressed in the heaviest gown Broadway has ever seen (thank god Merlin doesn’t have to dress her - his arms wouldn’t be able to handle it) and hat in hand, running down the corridor to where Merlin stands, very afraid. She hasn’t done anything, darted straight off of the stage, still high on the adrenaline rush of the performance, and flies in to Merlin’s arms with the tightest embrace known to mankind. Merlin stumbles a little - it’s the completely the weight of the gown, not the girl wearing it - not knowing what he’d done to deserve her happiness.

“I can’t  _ believe  _ it!” she almost  _ yells  _ into his shoulder, before gushing on, “actually, of course I can  _ believe  _ it, everyone could believe it, but I can’t believe it took you this  _ long  _ and at this stage it looked like it was never going to  _ happen _ and  _ wow _ .”

Merlin blinks back at her as she straightens herself up and untangles herself from his arms.    
“I’m sorry, what?” he cranes his neck, in a state of utter confusion, not even bothering to rub the green stains off of his hands.

“ _ You _ ,” Gwen pants, “and  _ Arthur _ ,” and again, “ _ finally got your act together,”  _ and it is at this point that Merlin realises that he hadn’t told anyone anything about his Monday night; the carousel, the cookies, the aftermath - 

So he asks, “How’d you know?” and expects some story of paparazzi shots following Arthur’s every move every minute of the day, but instead, Gwen rewards him with, “Arthur was  _ so different  _ in the show today. It’s the best show he’s ever done, better than his first, better than anything in his entire run here. And there’s only one thing that could’ve made him perform like that.”

Merlin feels proud of himself. If there’s one thing that he’s accomplished in his life, he’s bettered the performance of one of the best tenors on Broadway - perhaps in the world. He smiles, and Gwen sees this, ready to bombard him for details. But Merlin shoos her and her thousand pound dress off to wigs and makeup, prepared to face the news as it spreads through everyone in the building like wildfire. He turns to corner to the lavender-scented dressing room and waits. 


	15. [cookie] monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow more short chapters that you're getting because i have a huge maths exam that i am evidently not studying for!!! hhhahahaha good job @me

**chapter fourteen / [cookie] monster**

 

It’s the first ‘best moment’ of Arthur’s life, the day he first sets foot on a broadway stage as a performer. 

The long awaited 2006 revival has revamped its male ensemble, and Arthur is in full costume for his first mic check. He’s got his one forehead mic on, a strange change from the cheek microphones he’s become so accustomed to. He looks around - the leads get two mics, he knows this is just in case one of them breaks or falters halfway through a scene and then the other one takes over. 

It’s also the day he became properly acquainted with his new dresser that he had to share with half the male ensemble. He says  _ properly acquainted  _ because he’d met the man before, remembers him from the Cinderella stagedoor incident in college. Arthur learns about him, learns that he’s already worked in shows with half the people he’s responsible for dressing (so Arthur has some catching up to do,) learns that he’s on a first name basis with every worker at Schmackary’s down the road (so Arthur would have to find out his favourite cookies,) and learns on the first day that “threatening me with a  _ spoon _ , Arthur,” is not a good method of defence for somebody who steals your heart with his stupid lopsided grins and midnight hair. 

Arthur has more ‘best moments’ in his life, spread out over the years he spends on different stages and in different playbills. But there is always one common factor - the dresser from the Cinderella stagedoor.

The next ‘best moment’ of his comes that Sunday evening, when he’s meant to have the show off but Mordred calls him half an hour before his usual call time.

“I’m not coming in today,” he is sure Mordred knows this, “it interferes with my vocal rest schedule.”   
“I know, I know, but hear me out,” Mordred says from his dressing room, “we have a plan here, and you’re not getting a choice in whether it gets carried out or not, but I think you’d might like to watch it in action.”

And it’s pure, innocent Mordred that brings the ‘best moment’ to light. Arthur finds himself in a white t-shirt and jeans, in the doorway of Mordred’s dressing room, not his usual work attire by any circumstance. He doesn’t know anything about Mordred’s plan, except for the fact that he is assured by Gwen that Mordred is an incredible wordsmith and that the plan couldn’t possibly go wrong.

“But what’s the  _ aim  _ of the plan,” Arthur frowns into his phone, “the objective. What’s the point?”   
“You’re going to find out when you get yourself to the theatre,” Gwen says. Arthur does find out.

He learns that Mordred is by far the best off-stage actor out of all of them, so casual as he sorts through his hats for the first act, then pinning his wild curls down with pins for the first hat to assume its position atop them. Arthur, back pressed to the wall in the corridor outside his dressing room, can see enough out of the corner of his eye to know what’s going on, but he honestly doesn’t need to  _ see _ ; he can hear Merlin’s steady pacing from one side of the dressing room to the other as he gets Mordred ready for the evening show, movements calculated and prepared. And then the words come, and the whole point of the plan falls into place in Arthur’s mind.

“Do you love Arthur?” Mordred asks, so casually, still tending to his curls. 

Arthur hears the pacing of Merlin’s job stop, hears him drop something, hears the fresh silence that floats through the whole theatre. He wonders how many people are in on this ‘plan’ - Mordred, Gwen, Leon (for sure, otherwise Arthur would’ve been kicked out of the building by now,) probably Morgause, Arthur thinks, hearing her scarily high arpeggios fade away so she can listen in. 

“I don’t think it’s a hard question. Are in you in love with Arthur?”

And Arthur shuts his eyes. He can’t watch, angry at his  _ anatomy  _ that he can’t shut his ears so he doesn’t have to feel the pain that pierces through him when Merlin’s going to say, “I don’t know what gave you the idea in the first place. I could never be in love with Arthur Pendragon.”

He hears Merline exhale, can sense Merlin straightening his spine and his neck and unfurl his head upwards to his full height, hears the words of the boy he hasn’t spoken to in twenty-nine shows’ time, and the sound washes through Arthur’s body, and he opens his eyes again, unwillingly rotating himself. He’s leaning against the doorframe of Mordred’s dressing room, in clear view of anyone who might turn to look at the hole the door left in the wall, arms folded, eyes busy. Mordred, now done with his hat, makes eye contact with him, and Arthur holds it out of fear, doesn’t dare look at the tall figure facing the far wall of the room in front of the costume rack. 

“Yes. I am in love with Arthur Pendragon.”

 

Arthur is an actor. It is his job to hold himself in, lock his real self away from the world, put on a mask and transform into a beggar, a revolutionary, a king. He knows how to hide what he feels inside, keeping it away from playing out on his face. But it comes again - “I am in  _ love  _ with Arthur Pendragon,” - and it takes these words for Arthur to realise that he’ll never be  _ that  _ good an actor, never good enough to hold in emotions as strong and as powerful as these, and though he bites down on the inside of his cheeks, the smile betrays him and the corners of his mouth start to creep upwards, his brandeis blue eyes brightening. He knows that Mordred can see his plan working as Arthur’s face starts to transform, the marble actor broken by a handful of words from the dresser who could fight the moon with nothing but the image of a pearl in mind and win. If Arthur can barely handle the first two phrases, he doesn’t know how he makes it through the following soliloquy in one piece. So he writes his own version.

“I love Arthur Pendragon and everything about him,” Merlin says. “I love the way his hair looks when the lights catch his silhouette at just the right angle.”   
_ I love the way your eyes shine through the darkness in the wings,  _ Arthur thinks,  _ the brightest of stars through the thickening fog. _

“I love the way his fingers tap out the orchestra’s rhythms on his thigh four bars, and only four bars, before he runs onstage.”

_ I love the way your hands float when you conduct the orchestra when you think nobody can see you, but I can.  _

“I love the way he spends so long with his fans at stagedoor, even if that means I get hypothermia and die young, suffering a long, horrible death.”

_ I love the way you wait for me in the cold, in the rain, just so we can walk through the clutches of New York at the same time as each other. _

“I love Arthur and how he knows everyone’s favourite dumb cookies and knows when we’re down and exactly when we need a pick-me-up.”

_ I love how you brought me to those cookies in the first place, tying the strings around my heart that would lace me to you forever. _

“I love him and his dumb bottle of lavender oil that I almost knock over every time I go into that dumb dressing room.”

_ I love how you think you’re so smooth when you organise my dressing table, and how your arms snap back to your sides whenever you think anyone might’ve seen you almost tip something over. _

“I love him and the fact that he’s mentioned me, dumb little me,  _ ‘that idiot Merlin, _ ’ in every one of his dumb biographies they print in his dumb playbills.”

_ I love how you always do something memorable enough for you to be the first person I think of to thank whenever I have to write a new biography for a new playbill. _

“I remember the day he made his Broadway debut in Les Mis and Morgana got him this dumb bouquet of yellow roses because she’s so invested in that dumb Victorian flower language, and they meant congratulations on his highest achievement or something equally as dumb, and Arthur plucked one of the dumb flowers straight out and stuck it into my dumb hair like I was some primadonna, completely ignoring the fact that roses have thorns and that they’d prick my head when he shoved the dumb stalk at my face.”

_ I love the way you remember everything in our story from start to finish, word for word, moment to moment. I love how you always find yourself tangled up in my brightest moments, how you’re always there when I do the things I love most, how you always manage to swim back into my thoughts every waking moment, how you’re the one I’ll always remember by my side. And I’m sorry about the thorns. _

And it all takes so damn much out of Arthur, that he has to hold his breath while all the words, better than any script he’s ever read, flow through his mind. He has to bring his feet back down to earth, heart beating at a hundred miles an hour, keep his cool and stay in one place. So he is there, leaning charismatically against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, right leg in front of left, neck hanging the other way; and anyone who would’ve seen in that position would’ve thought he was having the most ordinary conversation of his life.

And the idiot apologises, he  _ apologies  _ for baring his pent up wealths of emotion to an audience he thought consisted solely of Mordred, still facing the same beige wall. 

“It’s okay,” Arthur says, and the look in Merlin’s eyes when he turns around is why Arthur catalogues this as one of his ‘best moments.’

 

The rest of the ‘best moments’ he’ll recall come in very quick succession; the minute immediately after the previous one, when Merlin promptly became shell shocked with fright before falling into Arthur’s arms too many years late, the time he almost tripped over a flowerbed as Arthur steered him towards Jane’s Carousel, the  _ kiss  _ not five minutes later, with Merlin wrapped up in his arms like a child who’d just been answered with the Christmas present he’d asked for years on end. 

And for Arthur’s list of ‘best moments,’ these have just been the first in his first twenty four years. 

_ -+- _

The dinner is hard on Morgana - it always is, every year - but never this much.

Accolon is there for her, but it is Accolon who brings the scowls, the glares, the whispers to husbands behind slender hands.

Uther takes Morgana aside after dessert, walking through the central hallway whilst the guests stay at the table to talk.

“You come to grieve your mother, and you bring with you the boy who tried to kill my son,” he grabs at her wrists, grip far too tight and unforgiving.    
“I refuse to believe that Accolon could ever do such a thing,” Morgana looks up bravely at her father, not weakened by his hold. He twists his hands and Morgana winces inside as her unmarked skin writhes, not letting the pain show on her face. “Your son was the one who tore his life to shreds.”   
“You are to respect your brother, and to do that you are not to see this boy again,” Uther warns. Morgana had expected the night to play out like this, but the burns penetrating her wrists from Uther’s hands creep through her veins.    
“You said that we would not be grieving my mother, but celebrating her life. You would treat your daughter like this,” she shakes her wrists minutely, just enough to cause Uther’s arms to move in the slightest, “in a celebration you proclaim in honour of your lover. You brandish hatred in the presence of the girl with the same eyes as the woman that you loved, the girl with the same soul of the woman that you killed.”   
“I did not kill my wife,” Uther drops his hands and steps back. “You don’t bring that boy back here.”

Morgana shakes her head, wearing a piteous smile, and crosses her arms so that her wrists are hidden away from anyone who might try to catch a glimpse at the stains on her pure skin. She marches back through the hallway to the dining room, where Accolon, despite the snarls from her aunts, is talking quite calmly with one of Morgana’s producer cousins, eyes darting up when he hears her return.

“I’d like to thank my father, Uther, and all of you for coming to remember my mother,” she straightens her arms when she reaches a spot she deems worthy enough for her address. She keeps the insides of her wrists, glued to her body, hidden, as she looks over the congregation. “However, it is with my sincerest regrets at Accolon and I must make a premature departure tonight.” She may not be a woman of her word, but she is a woman of her words. 

Accolon hangs onto her every word, adapting to every syllable Morgana lets off. She doesn’t break eye contact with him the whole time, and he stands slowly, shaking the hand of the producer next to him, pushing his chair in as he walks over to Morgana’s side. 

They’re out of the penthouse and into the lift faster than he can shallowly thank Uther for the dinner, Morgana frantically pressing the button to close the doors of the lift. She forgets to press the  _ ground level  _ button before she promptly breaks down, her back sliding down the mirrored wall. 

Accolon feels a pain across the front of his forehead when he sees a martyr crumple to the ground before him. So he sits down next to her, straightens her legs out and unclasps her expensive heels before leaning his own back against the mirror, running a hand through her dark hair when her head drops heavily onto his shoulder. 

Maybe he’ll never be enough for her. 

But he likes to think he makes a good start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please make me do maths


	16. white chocolate cherry chunker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sos why don't i live in new york  
> (biggest maths exam of my life to date tomorrow and i've spent all weekend writing and not touched my maths. i'm praying to every god i know of that i get 50% in this)

**chapter fifteen / white chocolate cherry chunker**

Guinevere was born at 10:05 in the evening. She likes to paint her toenails in alternating colours, usually pastel blue then pink, or pink then green. She loves chocolate frogs, long car rides that make you slip into a state of delirium at the halfway point, and flower crowns made of white and pink daisies that hover just above her ears. She also loves Lancelot, and he is something that she is not willing to give up without a fight.

Lancelot doesn’t know what time he was born. He likes to read, apartment lined with shelves of Orwell and Eliot and Kafka. He loves travelling by plane, the sharp nothingness of every airport he visits transfixed in his mind, layering himself in as many jumpers as it takes to keep himself warm in the winters, and strumming his fingers softly over the strings of his guitar, making up chord progressions, loves the fact that the first cookie he ever got from Schmackary's was a delightful White Chocolate Cherry Chunker, loves the fact that he's never eaten another one of those even more. He also loves Guinevere, and he would go to the ends of the earth for her any day of the week.

“It’s sickening,” Morgana says, “how in love they are with each other. Sickly sweet. Sweeter than Gwen’s Funfetti cookies that she gets every time. I don’t get what’s so good about Funfetti; it’s just a boring sugar cookie with sprinkles and –“

“Bullying me about my boyfriend, I’ll accept,” Gwen replies, “but bullying me for my cookie choices, that’s a no-go zone.”

Lancelot slams his Schmacker-doodle down in protest, and Gwen laughs, burying her head in his shoulder.

“Thought so,” Lance leans his cheek on top of her curls, “I’ll fight your Funfetti any day of the week.”

This is the first scenario that Arthur goes through when he thinks about how loved up his friends are. Gwen and Lance and their sugarcoated romance. Morgana and Accolon and their whirlwind of a destructive, seductive affair. Even Mordred and Kara, like children with love, like villains with alcohol.

This makes him realise how heterosexual all his friends are. The gay has to come from somewhere, he decides, as he runs his fingers through Merlin’s hair.

_-+-_

They sit in the lift for a good ten minutes, arms weakly locked around each other, limbs heavy against the wall. Accolon finds the bruises on her wrists, not knowing what he was supposed to expect, showers Morgana’s skin with faerie’s kisses, takes her hands in his own and sits there as she breathes slowly into his shoulder. Morgana hasn’t let out a single tear, but the weight from her failure drowns her more than any cathartic cry.

And in the silence, Morgana eventually stands up, and presses the button that will take them to _ground floor._ Accolon joins her, standing, and they walk out of and away from the building in stillness, leaving Uther behind.

“I care about you,” Accolon later says as they drive, “a lot. And I don’t ever want to see you like that again. I want you to be happy for every day of your life, and even though that’s unrealistic, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that happens. There are things that I see inside you, Morgana, that make you so special, and I want you to know that if you weren’t driving right now, I’d be kissing you into outer space.”

Morgana pulls over, almost as a challenge.

“Not driving,” she says.

_-+-_

Arthur finishes the second show of the day and does his vocal warmdowns and Merlin does a check over of all his costumes, and then Mordred’s, and raises a hand to heave the stagedoor open.

“Wait,” he hears his favourite voice from behind him. “They’re going to see us together,” Arthur runs down the hallway to catch up with Merlin, fitting their fingers neatly together and giving Merlin’s hand a squeeze.

“That’s the quickest you’ve ever been ready to go, by a mile,” Merlin says.

“Slowest you’ve ever been,” Arthur shrugs, and lifts open the door.

The first thing Merlin hears is someone shouting, “ _finally,_ holy _shit_ ,” before the girl is quickly reprimanded by her mother.

Usually, nobody cares about Merlin when he leaves the theatre through the stagedoor.

The fans are too busy flocking over the stars, the actors, anyone but an insignificant dresser. But two months into his affairs at _Wicked,_ Merlin leaves through the stagedoor with his hand holding Arthur’s and the crowd goes wild.

_-+-_

“I have _never_ taken that many selfies,” Merlin laments over his Red Velvet, burying himself deeper in his seat.

“Comes with the job,” Arthur croons, “the whole looking good bit.”

“I’m not complaining.”

_-+-_

They make it to Morgana’s just before midnight. The apartment has remained untouched for the better part of a week, having seen Morgana at Accolon’s place for the nights instead. But they both bundle up and tuck themselves into Morgana’s queen-sized bed, letting each other’s embrace be their lullaby.

_-+-_

“We’ve got an instagram tag,” Merlin chimes in the morning, over the smell of tea Arthur has bothered to make, “hashtag _merthur._ ”

“ _Merthur_ ,” Arthur repeats groggily, “it works.”

Merlin looks up at him, mind running over the last night. They’d taken the same train, rather than Arthur walking to a different platform, deeming his apartment “too far away,” and that Merlin might show him “the liberty of taking him home instead,” to which Merlin could simply not refuse. So the two of them had spent the night together (again,) and Morgana’s commentary of _“literally so fucking domestic”_ played in a loop through Merlin’s head.

Merlin scrolls through the tag on his instagram, tapping on photos of people that he vaguely remembers from his stagedoor expedition last night. He wants to say that he never reads the captions, but they’re too enticing for him to ignore. So he reads them out loud for the both of them.

 **_@helenmora_ ** _mind my face but finally saw these two idiots @wicked_musical last night #wicked #broadway #merthur_

“Oh no,” Merlin says, “they’re onto us.”

 **_@cornelius_sigan1_ ** _LOOK WHO FINALLY GOT THEIR ACT TOGETHER #MERTHUR_

“This isn’t even a photo of us with this kid,” Merlin furrows his eyebrows, “this must be what it feels like to get papped. They keep messing up my angles.”

 **_@merthur4eva123_ ** _had the best night @wicked_musical that was only made better by these two dollopheads!!!!!_

“Merthur forever one two three,” Merlin reads out, “with the forever like four e-v-a.”

“Intriguing,” Arthur pours out two cups of tea. “Read out some more captions. They seem to be pretty true.”

Merlin can’t believe he ended up with such a dork.

_-+-_

Sometimes, now, Merlin and Arthur leave one or the other’s apartments together on show days, parading through the city never without linked arms or hands or lips. This, Arthur decides, is a good strategy, as it means Merlin is never late for his call time, and it also means that he does not have to be apart from Merlin for more time than necessary throughout the day. On this particular two-show day, they depart from Merlin’s apartment with a solid amount of travel time _and_ ten minutes before Arthur’s call time for the matinee. So they walk to the Metro together, arms swinging, smiles an involuntary reaction to each other’s contact. They don’t need to speak to each other, absorbing the warmth that both of them brought to the other, and the joy of the little old ladies beaming at them upon spotting their connected hands.

“That’s so good for you,” one woman, nothing less than eighty, says that afternoon upon passing the pair, “that you’re brave enough to express a love like yours in a city like this.”  
“If not here, then where?” Arthur asks. “We have the greatest city in the world at our feet, waiting to obey our ever word.”  
The woman purses her lips together, and she can sense that she and Arthur are both ready to fight. So Merlin steps in.  
“Thank you, young lady,” he charms her before Arthur can speak, “for your compliments in this day and age. It means so much to us that someone like you can let us be.”  
The woman chuckles merrily, reaches up as far as she possibly can to touch Merlin lightly on the shoulder, and carries on walking.  
Merlin and Arthur continue on their way, too, but not before Merlin rewards himself with a sly glance (down) at Arthur, who scowls and pulls Merlin along by their connected hands.

_-+-_

Accolon (a morning person) has come to the realisation that Morgana (not a morning person) loves to sleep in far too long.

He doesn’t know how she does it – it being, getting up at eight and managing to be at the café down the road at 8:23, looking like a goddess on earth, quick strides filled with power and determination.

He doesn’t understand how the girl, currently composed of a lake of untamed black hair and broken dreams in her head will be ready to conquer the world in her clicking heels in twenty minutes. Maybe she’s magic.

Accolon is up by half past six. Morgana would think him strange as he wakes before the sun, feeling at home already in her apartment. He sits on the edge of the bed, content in just looking at Morgana for a while.

Accolon knows that he is going to die young. It is undeniable, but maybe that’s the way he wants it. Live to the fullest, push regret to the sidelines – sometimes you have to do what is right, and damn the consequences. He fills his life to the brim with beauty and wonder, never denying himself what he believes brings him one step further along the path to happiness. So he looks at Morgana, bathed in the first stretches of sunlight of the day, simply because she is beautiful and Accolon loves beautiful things. At a quarter to seven, he finds some ingredients in the back of Morgana’s mostly untouched pantry, and starts to formulate batter from scratch.

At 7:58, Morgana is woken to the scent of fresh blueberry waffles filling her apartment, and it’s the best feeling she’s had in her entire life. It’s almost motivational enough to pull her out of bed the sacred two minutes before eight she has.

_Almost._

However, she is sure that this is the best thing that any living human has ever done for her, so she rolls over and smiles the purest smile mankind might ever have the pleasure of seeing.

“Mmm, love you,” she murmurs reflexively, before turning her face back into the pillow for the last two minutes she can cherish before she has to face the day.

Accolon stops. He turns from his place at the kitchen counter to face where the soft voice came from, though the great expanse of the apartment blocks him from seeing Morgana. Maybe he didn’t hear her properly. Maybe she’s in a drunken haze induced by sleep deprivation. Maybe, maybe – his mind rattles on excuses until he’s convinced himself Morgana didn’t know what she was saying.  

_-+-_

_the sky deck, a bar in the theatre district, october 20_ _th_ _, 9:40pm_

“I’ve never told somebody I loved them,” Morgana says.  
“Ever?”  
“Never.”  
“Strange,” Accolon watches how she twists the bottle neck between her fingers, how the bottle twists and pirouettes as she coils her wrist up. “I thought you’d be fending off the guys from all sides.”  
“Of course I am,” she puts the bottle down on the bar, “that’s one of the conditions in the job description of ‘being Morgana Pendragon.’ It’s the whole falling in love bit that doesn’t happen.”  
Accolon is quiet.  
“Even this guy I had on for almost two years, great guy,” Morgana gestures with her arms, almost wildly, “I almost thought I might’ve loved him. I was going to say it, I was so sure that he might’ve been the one. I _almost_ loved him because he was exactly what I’d been looking for my whole life; charisma, love of the arts, a _tenor_ , could cook up a mean dinner in the winter, best hugs that a girl could only ever dream about, even Uther liked him.”  
“And his fault was…?”  
“Turns out he was gayer than Neil Patrick Harris and just wanted to fuck my brother.”  
“Shit,” Accolon says.  
“Two years, I dealt with his gay ass. He even ran an instagram fanpage dedicated to Arthur’s biceps,” Morgana protests, and Accolon is almost - _almost_ \-  tempted to giggle.

_-+-_

Morgana has never said she loves somebody.

But she loves Accolon.

These better be the best waffles he’s ever made to deserve someone like Morgana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man i dont even know where I'm going with this I just know I've written a novella to escape doing maths


	17. peanut butter and jelly, or, pb&j

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more maths exam on monday and english on tuesday and music on the friday after that and then i have two weeks of holidays! (two weeks of holidays to study for the two weeks straight of exams i have after that!)
> 
> broadway trivia:  
> the difference between an on-broadway (just 'broadway') theater and an off-broadway theater is literally just the number of seats i think: a broadway theater has 500+ seats (if i remember correctly?) and an off-broadway theatre has 200-500, so the shows produced there are generally smaller shows that rarely get as popular as broadway shows. however, lots of off-broadway shows transfer to broadway theaters and have successful runs there (i.e. hamilton yeah)
> 
> the public theatre: a really cool off-broadway theatre, shows here were like Avenue-Q and Hamilton before they transferred to broadway
> 
> Nederlander: a famous production company run through generations of folks with the surname Nederlander that's it
> 
> Cynthia Erivo: a fucking 5'1 POWERHOUSE. literally a goddess. won the tony for best actress in a musical this past awards season. wowza

**chapter fifteen / peanut butter and jelly, or PB &J**

Arthur had a dog when he was younger. He also had brown hair, and a thing for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

The dog was named Cavall, and it definitely liked Morgana than it liked him, but Cavall is the primary reason Arthur calls himself a dog person now.

He’d been a Christmas present one year he was far too young to remember - his first Christmas, probably - the year Morgana had chopped off her dark locks into a bob.  
Arthur is so small - he will later remember that he is almost eleven months old - and Morgana is a bit past four, small face framed by the embrace of her strange haircut. The dog is the same size as young Arthur, coat shimmering like fools gold, with its front legs perched on Morgana’s shoulders.

“He’s a Vizsla,” her voice comes and it’s not Morgana’s, but Arthur doesn’t remember who else the voice could belong to, “a Hungarian breed of loyal sporting dogs. Gentle in temperament, energetic and affectionate.”

And she has a Polaroid camera and she takes a photo, Arthur assumes, because there’s the bright flash of light that makes his head turn, the first flash he remembers.

He sees a lot more of them now, the blinding bursts of white light blurring together wherever he goes, trying to hide but never succeeding. But will always be the first surge of light he remembers, and now that the light follows him, this photo follows him from each dressing room to the next, tacked up lazily in the bottom left corner of the mirror.

_-+-_

Morgana is up at 7:59, showered and dressed by 8:08, and in the kitchen with her head leaning on Accolon’s back by 8:09.

And he looks at her – looks a lot further _down_ at her than usual, and then looks over at her battalion of five inch heels by the door.

“Shortie,” he teases, tapping her on the head with a waffle-loaded plate that he goes to set on the table. She pouts in an eloquent reply, detaching herself from his back.

Morgana is by no means short – reaching a smart five and a half feet barefoot – but Accolon rarely sees her standing without her heels that bring her close to six foot, a small two and a bit inches off of his own height. But now he towers over her, feels the arms wrapped lower around his waist than usual as he pries a waffle out of the machine.

It’s like they’ve been at this routine for five, ten years - nothing like an impulse breakfast of waffles devoured by 8:19, the sweet taste of the blueberries lingering in Morgana’s mouth, erased only by the slow doorway kisses of 8:20.

It becomes much easier to kiss Accolon, Morgana decides, after she gets her heels on, taking away his advantage of being six foot two and able to conquer the world from his height alone. But she has a routine to adhere to, and even he struggles to keep up with the famous pace she enlists to get to her chai latte cafe by 8:23.

_-+-_

Arthur wakes up to find a manila folder filled with papers on his bedside table. He distinctly sees it as _his_ bedside table, as opposed to Merlin’s, the two apartments morphing together into a place where “Merlin and Arthur stayed,” instead of “Merlin’s apartment,” and “Arthur’s studio apartment on the Upper East Side.” And he wakes up alone for the first time in perhaps a week, imagines Merlin waking alone in Sunnyside, and reaches a hand out to the folder.

It’s a stack of audition papers, of course it is, that Uther’d had sent to him just in time for audition season. He realises that he’s signed onto wicked for only another three and a half months, time that would pass quicker than he’d expect. So he takes the papers and reads through what they have to offer:

Beautiful: The Carole King Musical - _GERRY GOFFIN_

Waitress - _DR. JIM POMATTER_

Jersey Boys - _FRANKIE VALLI_

And they are all incredible shows and incredible roles that he _would_ fight hard for, but all the same in a sense. The leading man who does something cool and then falls in love.

“Of course you’re going to be type-cast all the time,” Merlin reaffirms in his brain, from a discussion before a _Camelot_ matinee, “because you’re a tenor, and you know, you’re, you’re...”  
“I’m...” Arthur cues, trying to pull the words out of his mouth.  
“You know,” Merlin shuffles away and immerses himself in a pile of waistcoats and sword sheaths, “attractive and stuff. And you can sing really good high notes for a long time.”  
Arthur grins. “You think I’m attractive, Merlin?”  
Merlin huffs. “Well, I’m talking more so from the general Broadway community, and casting directors and agents and whatnot, not _my_ personal opinion, because I’m not the one who does the casting and hence I can’t be blamed for type-casting.”  
“You think I’m attractive,” Arthur keeps teasing as he gets about his makeup, “just admit it, _Mer_ lin.”  
Merlin huffs again and stalks out of the dressing room, three sheaths still slung over his arm.

_-+-_

Arthur still has _Wicked_ to wake up to for three and a half months, still, and these are three and a half months he is going to remember.

But good things never last.

_-+-_

“They want me to interview my _own brother_ ,” Morgana’s posture slumps, and she heaves her elbows onto her desk.  
“I’m surprised they don’t ask for it more often. It must be endearing having siblings as two big names on Broadway.”  
“But nobody _cares_ about journalism unless you’re Paul Wontorek. And I always tell them, ‘ _no_ , I will _not_ interview my brother just so you can get a few more views from having a Pendragon duo on your clipboard.”  
“It’s going to be the biggest interview _playbill.com_ ’s ever hosted,” Accolon twists his arms around her, causing her whole body to swing from side to side on her swivel chair.  
“Tempting,” she looks up, “but I’ve always had a thing about not interviewing family.”  
“Always a time to break tradition,” he says, plants a kiss in her hair, and leaves for his own work.

_-+-_

That’s a thing Accolon does.

One moment he is right there, arms twisted enticingly, engulfing her entire body with a single touch of his. She is submerged, completely happy to be drowning if she gets to drown in him. In his scent, the geranium, sandalwood, the tinges of burnt marshmallows over a campfire. Drowning in his taste, a fougère of martyrs, subtle and confident, and the light of tomorrow all swimming together on his lips.

That is a thing that Accolon does. He is there, and then he is gone.

_-+-_

“You got my audition notices, I’m assuming,” Uther is back to his pacing. It’s always the pacing. Arthur’s eyes follow him across the room, back and forth, like an endless tennis match.

“I got them,” Arthur says, “read them all.”  
“And Jersey Boys will be your first one up. November 14th. A Monday, with callbacks on the same day.”  
Arthur crosses his legs, crosses his arms, twists himself into as small a space he can whilst still looking dignified. “Jersey Boys didn’t really stand out to me.”  
Uther stands still. “You’re starting to turn away roles that you are very lucky to succeed in getting,” and he _smiles_ , Uther Pendragon is _smiling_ and Arthur knows that he’s done something wrong. The smile isn’t genuine - it’s a mix of piteous and disbelieving, and “you’re not going to turn away a _leading role on Broadway_ ,” is what he gets thrown out of the building for.

_-+-_

It’s very easy for Merlin to write these days.

He’s always wanted to write a musical; a whole show with sweeping scores from start to finish, with an ensemble dancing and soaring and flying, a tortured ingénue reaching notes no human had ever dared to hear, and an invincible lead tenor tying the show together word by word.

 _His_ invincible tenor, to be specific.

Sometimes, Arthur still sings his song instead of arpeggios after a particularly tiresome show. It is in ways like that this that Merlin sticks to him like a magnet.

Merlin started writing his musical with a story that took him years to find. He settled on that of Bonnie and Clyde; ill-fated, star-crossed lovers destined to die together. The first song he wrote for his show was a love song, orchestrated simply with a ukulele for the first verse, intimately sung by Clyde to the heart of his beloved.

_I start thinkin' 'bout my Bonnie_  
_From the minute I wake up_  
_And that feelin' is the best I ever had_  
_She is in my shavin' mirror_  
_She is in my coffee cup  
_ _I must be in love or else I'm goin' mad._

And he writes this not because Arthur can play the ukulele, pull off a mean Texan accent, and the fact that ‘Bonnie’ is stressed the same way as ‘Merlin.’

_I would like to write to Bonnie_  
_Tell the girl the way I feel_  
_But I'm better with a car than with a pen_  
_Used to be I'm only happy when I'm set behind a wheel  
_ _Now I don't care if I ever drive again._

And this is where the strings come in, soft and cascading, hypnotising the audience, complimenting Clyde’s soft voice immaculately.

_That girl's got somethin'_  
_Nothing scares her._  
_Only piece of luck that's ever come my way._  
_Can't wait to tell her_  
_How much I've missed her._  
_Feelin' sorry for James Cagney  
_ _'Cause he's never kissed her._

Merlin doesn’t know who he’s writing about anymore - Bonnie, Clyde, Arthur, the names all blur together under the tip of his pen, all celestial bodies of merging light, all too bright and strong to be reckoned with blindly.

_I start dreamin' 'bout my Bonnie_  
_Just as soon as I'm asleep._  
_They're the kind of dreams that keep you in your bed_  
_I am makin' love to Bonnie_  
_And that sure beats countin' sheep.  
_ _Got a feelin' there are good times up ahead._

And he finishes writing this song in almost two hours, closing his manuscript pad with a light thud and smiling as he files it away.

_-+-_

Morgana hasn’t seen Arthur in four days.

This seems very normal for most siblings over the age of twenty-five in the big city, but Morgana and Arthur work within three blocks of each other, so close that she can almost hear his belting flying over the city eight times a week. So close but so far from her roots, passing by the Gershwin he makes his own so often, covered in the renowned green of the show he’d waited to be in his whole life.

This is what Morgana thinks about as she lies in Accolon’s arms that night.

“I haven’t sung since senior year of college,” he whispers into the dark. Morgana’s apartment does a good job of blocking out so much of the New York light that never dares fade away in the small hours of the morning.  
“Do you think you’ll ever sing again?”  
“Maybe one day,” and his voice seems to take on so much more of the raspiness that Morgana loves but feels a sting of pain every time she hears. Maybe one day she’ll forgive her brother.

_-+-_

They listen to showtunes over their lunch break now, Accolon bringing his earphones with the bit that hooks over your ears - Morgana finds this useless with her tiny ears and Accolon just laughs at her - and they get music in one ear each as they sip smoothies and stare into each other’s eyes, or steal each other’s leftover chips from the corner of their plates as the other pretends not to notice.

Some days they listen to Rodgers and Hammerstein. This is what happens most days, the predictable sequences and soprano-tenor duets not distracting them from deciphering each other’s souls. They waste away the choreography they can all see in the back of their heads, swirling ball gowns and full skirts flying in their minds. She taps Cinderella’s lines onto the wooden tables, and he taps the Prince’s lines onto the back of her hand.

On the good days they listen to Sondheim. They listen to Sondheim, the master of deception, trickling tricks into their ears, unthinkable harmonies giving the genius his title. They see the greying hair of the Baker, the crumbs dropping from Little Red’s hands as she bites into her snickerdoodle again, the shadows of the Witch’s cape as it flies out above the stage fog. They are still when they listen to Sondheim, drowning in the lyrics, the woodwinds, the rests.

Today they are listening to Cynthia Erivo belting out Jason Robert Brown’s _I Can Do Better Than That,_ shell shocked as all five feet and an inch of the British superstar tears the song apart. She forgets the lyrics at one point, but nobody really cares, because she’s won a Tony for best actress in a musical, simultaneously writing herself into the eternal Broadway hall of fame. Morgana mouths the words between bites.

“Watch out, Cynthia Erivo,” Accolon teases, “we’ve got this one on the scene.”  
“Like _you_ could sing like her.”  
“Watch me,” Accolon challenges, and returns to his pizza.

“You eat pizza with a _knife and fork_ ,” Morgana pulls out her earphone, “I’d like to see you outsing Cynthia Erivo whilst committing a crime against the greatest food ever invented.”

-+-

“A new composer’s just written a show,” Uther says as soon as Arthur sets foot in the office. “Production team laid out, ensemble’s been cast, it’s going to be produced off-Broadway by the young Nederlander.”  
“Off-Broadway,” Arthur raises an eyebrow. His agent never comes straight to him with a proposition that isn’t for an on-Broadway show, so the casting call seems strange to him, suspicious.  
“The composer asked specifically for you, if you’re wondering why we’re discussing off-Broadway at all. They called last week.”  
“Why’d you wait this long to tell me?”  
“Look, Arthur,” Uther’s voice drops, and he leans his palms heavily on his desk. “The composer himself called me to ask if you’d be interested in leading the show. He laid down all kinds of names from Nederlander to Morgause for the soprano lead, but that of the director was the first name he gave to me.”  
Arthur’s arms hang heavily by his sides.  
“I don’t think I need to give you the name,” Uther stretches out his arm, a yellow manila file attached to the end of it. His son takes it, and leaves.

_-+-_

Arthur stops at Schmackary’s on the way to the theatre from his agent’s office, taking a split second to rush back and close the glass doors softly after realising how heavily he’d slammed it on his way in. He figures that if he’d need a pick-me-up, so would somebody else in the cast, so when he arrives at the counter, he points out a box of forty-eight, enough to feed cast and crew.

He handpicks a selection, despite multiple suggestions from the young girl behind the counter whom he can tell is new – he would’ve recognised her otherwise, and she recites the cookie names like they’re out of a textbook.

“Red Velvet,” is Arthur’s first selection, before “Funfetti, Lemon Poppy, Schmacker-doodle,” and Morgause? “White Chocolate Cherry Chunker,” he finally decides.

“You’ve got room for one more type,” the girl taps her gloved fingers on the marble bench.  
“Caramel Apple Crisp,” Arthur doesn’t hesitate at all.  
“We don’t do those in November,” he hears, and is a little offended. So he says, “Peanut Butter and Jelly,” to which he is reprimanded with, “you mean, _PB &J_.”  
He pays and lifts the box which takes a good lot of his wingspan, before thanking the new girl.  
“Thank you, Arthur,” she replies, and he only realises that he never told her his name when he’s halfway to the theater.

He snacks on one of the ~~Peanut Butter and Jelly~~ _PB &J _cookies on his way. It’s a rather slack substitute for his caramel cravings, but it tastes like his childhood, and Arthur is strangely okay with that tonight.

_-+-_

As soon as he hears the stage door slam ten minutes after it was opened and shut forty times in quick succession, Arthur is ranting straight away, loud voice projected down the halls.

“It sounds like an incredible show,” Merlin consoles as he hurries from side to side of the dressing room, “up-and-coming composer _and_ lyricist in one, strangely high production budget for an off-Broadway show, and you’ve always wanted to play at the Public Theater. This is your chance.”  
Merlin pats Arthur on the head as he passes the mirror, a little condescendingly. Arthur scrapes his fingers to get the excess hair wax off, twisting the plastic lid shut on the tin.

“If I’m going to pay the _Public_ I’d want to perform my best.”  
“You always want to perform your best. I don’t get why you’re fretting so much.” Another passing pat. Arthur tries to reach up to catch Merlin’s hand before it leaves his head, but the dresser is too fast for him.  
“It’s just that –“ and Arthur realises that Merlin doesn’t _know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> make me study omg
> 
> \--  
> the song i used as Merlin's composition is an actual thing, from the show (believe it or not) 'Bonnie & Clyde' by Frank Wildhorn (who wrote a musical called Artus-Excalibur which is unfortunately in German but it's an amazing show!!)  
> I haven't mentioned Frank Wildhorn in this so far because I think I'll be basing Merlin's compositions off of his actual work !!


	18. cereal killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things 2 think about:  
> 1\. no one is alone is a goRGEOUS song in into the woods (my favourite i reckon) where cinderella gets to sing this gorgeous sustained high f-sharp at the end (my favourite note in the show i reckon) and its just literally so beautiful im a slut for sondheim's soprano lines  
> 2\. ithaca, if you don't live in america, is a town about four hours from NYC. ithaca college has a gorgeous theatre program (hence why the great tveit went there probably)  
> enjoy my maths procrastination :))  
> 3\. i'm so bitter about not being in into the woods anymore

**chapter seventeen / cereal killer**

The last time Morgana performed for an audience, she was fourteen.

She never talks about this, because it was the best thing she’d done in her entire life to date and in six months time she’d know that she’d never do it again.

She never makes the stupid  _ Into the Woods  _ jokes that all the other reporters and reviewers and promoters make, because she was in the show when she was in high school and she’s never managed to shake the experience.

She remembers the mic-check before every show of the week-long run, when the cast would sit in a long, crooked line across the set, waiting for their microphone number – Morgana had microphone two – to be called. She remembers sitting in make-up, watching as her step-sisters got their fancy wigs on while someone twisted two simple dark braids along the back of her head, pinning them in gently. She remembers the dash of dirt along her left cheek that she had to cover up with foundation because there wasn’t enough time to scrub it off before she had to be back on stage, she remembers feeling too light-hearted to feel awake in the wings, moments before she went on to reveal herself to her prince. She remembers transcending the barrier between reality and being truly  _ alive _ , practicing tripping only to her left – a push of the ankle, head twisted away, left arm out, palms flat. She remembers stowing away her golden slippers after her last show, not knowing that she’d never see them again. She remembers falling into the arms of her prince after their last performance, tears flowing freely as the cast surrounded her, warm hearts aglow. She remembers breathing after the last ‘ _ is _ ’ in  _ No One Is Alone _ , and how the school talked about her gorgeous high f-sharps for a week.

She remembers being Cinderella, and she remembers how much she loved it.

_ -+- _

“Off-Broadway,” she says as she reads through the paperwork, “nice.”

“It’s been a while.”

“You can do it. I believe in you.”

“Cheesy,” Accolon puts his hands over hers, “but I’ll take it.”   
“William Sage Oyen,” Morgana reads some names off of the sheet, seeing if any of them ring a bell. This one does. “Hey, that’s Will, one of Merlin’s nerd composer friends. The one from Ithaca.”   
“I suppose he must be. I’ve never worked with him. Heard his name here and there. Heard his works. Good composer, does his job well.”   
“ _ Nederlander  _ on production. Well done,” she cooes. “Any clues on casting, so far?”   
“I know it’s a small cast, maybe twelve, half of which are predominantly ensemble. Supporting roles for tenor and soprano.”   
“And a tenor lead,” Morgana drags out, and she feels the nod of Accolon’s chin on the top of her head in reward.   
“I know that they’ve already got that Mordred kid signed on for the supporting tenor. Lots of names going around for the soprano; Morgause, Freya Bastet, Sophia Fey, all high profile, all keen for off-Broadway.”   
“And for the lead?”   
“They’ve made some calls.”

He plants a kiss in her hair and he’s gone again. Morgana still has the folder of paperwork, and her eyes flit down quickly to the page it sits open on.

_ TYRANTS by WILLIAM SAGE OYEN _

Casting for EDWIN BOOTH: Nick Jonas meets college-era Accolon Gaul. A bold, determined leader. Tenor. Lead. 18-30.   
Possibilities:   
_ ARTHUR PENDRAGON (contacted, via Pendragon Agencies) _   
_ Lancelot du Lac _ _   
_ _ Percival Dindrane _

She doesn’t touch the page, almost afraid to leave a mark on it, in fear that her fingerprints might stain the future. She makes sure that the folder is returned to Accolon’s desk just before their lunch break, fretting until it’s parallel with the base of his keyboard.

_ -+- _

  
“William Sage Oyen,” Merlin laughs at the sacrifice of a few Red Velvet crumbs on the table. “I haven’t seen you for years. Since the  _ Outlaws  _ premiere. But I remembered your cookie order, thank you very much.”   
“It’s not really hard to remember my order, though-”   
“Just because you get to blur the lines between hero and villain and man and god in every goddamn show you write doesn’t mean that you’re exclusively limited to Cereal Killer. Explore your options.”   
“Easy for you to say, while you drown in your own whining on days they don’t have Red Velvet.”   
“Shut up, Arthur,” Merlin scolds, “this man wants to  _ employ  _ you.”   
“I’m not a starving actor lying on the streets,” Arthur scrunches his nose up. It’s kinda cute, in Merlin’s opinion, but he can’t let that get in his way while he’s trying to fight his boyfriend.   
“Not  _ anymore _ ,” he returns, “it’s amazing that you managed to get yourself dressed every day. Oh, wait, that’s my job.”   
“Boys, boys, I get that your love is strong enough to pull the Titanic straight up from the depths, but,” Will pulls a stack of neatly printed sheet music from his bag, “down to business here.”

The song on the top of the pile has a few smudged ink smears across the block title, like it was grabbed off of the printer too quickly. Merlin scans through the score, instrumented for guitar and tenor, and the notes fly off of the page and into his head. He thinks of how nicely the song would sit in the sweetest part of Arthur’s range, sees Arthur in a dark costume sitting on a long-legged stool, centre stage, a single spotlight illuminating the stage. Hears the ends of phrases soaring upwards, the rhymes tying the lines together like a handsome quilt of autumn leaves covering the ground. 

And Arthur reads through the score too, though not as quickly as Merlin, who passes a page to Arthur once he’s finished reading through it. Arthur taps his foot under the table, and Merlin feels the lift and drop through their calves pressed together. 

Will sits quietly, looking from his Cereal Killer to Merlin to Arthur and repeating the cycle through the trio every few seconds. Maybe he’s nervous, maybe he just looks like that because he gets paid to compose and it’s basically a composer’s job to look nervous all the time. 

“Nice,” Merlin says, as he passes across the last page of the score, “different, but nice.”

He doesn’t know what he was actually expecting; the harsh, defined rhythms of his usual songs, the melodies revolving around a centrepiece note, ironic Bible quotes. Instead, he hears the soft guitar trickling off the page, inviting accidentals providing a Spring Awakening disguise, the lyrics which almost hit too close to home. 

“Nice,” Arthur echoes a few seconds later, as he returns the final page of the song to the small upside-down pile it’d made. He turns the stack of paper over, so the music is face-up. Maybe Will breathes a sigh of relief, or maybe it’s because he gets paid to compose and it’s basically a composer’s job to impress anyone with the surname Pendragon.    
“Your agent talked to me about your interest in the show, and asked for me to talk to you in person about your hesitations about signing on.”   
“Of course,” Arthur replies, and Merlin senses that he has his business voice on now. Merlin makes himself comfortable in the cushioned corner seat, leaning back and folding his arms. He presses his lips together, making sure that he doesn’t make some disasterly input for the next twenty minutes.    
“So, your hesitations,” Will presses on, tapping the papers between his hands and the table to even the sheets out.   
“Look, William,” Arthur puts his cookie down. It doesn’t seem very necessarily professional at this point in time. “You’ve obviously got a beautiful show written out here. Of course you do; you’ve got Nederlander on board, and you’re getting produced off-Broadway. This show is going to be a great success. But there’s one name on this I’d like to ask about.”

Arthur pulls his manilla folder of information out, placing it on the table in front of him. He searches through a few pages, before he eventually twists the folder around to face Will across the table from him, and places his finger accusingly next to a name.    
“Oh, Accolon Gaul,” Will smiles gently, “for direction. First person that I had in mind for this show. Before any actors, before I even dreamed of Nederlander, I thought of Accolon to direct the show. He brings something to the table that I’ve never seen in a show disassociated with his name. The staple of his work is something of raw beauty, but no matter how much you over decorate it, it still shines through.”

Merlin knows that Will doesn’t pick his words carefully for Arthur. He doesn’t think about every word directed at the actor known for bringing crows back with his extravagant riffs, dangerous belting, and scenes that leave audiences baffled at how he pulled them off. Merlin also knows that the opportunity laid in front of Arthur is incredible. Merlin doesn’t know why he didn’t snap it up in an instant. He puts together the pieces that he does know - Accolon Gaul seems to be the problem. The same Accolon Gaul that Morgana had marked as her own a month ago, the same that Arthur went to college with.

_ -+- _

Lance is accustomed to getting texts in the small hours of the morning from his friends. He’s the mom friend - dealing with the rest of them whenever need me, calm and sensible words of advice flashing between screens across the big city. This situation is no different, he decides, when his phone buzzes in the middle of the night. This conclusion changes slightly when he sees the two names pop up on his screen.

**Arthur** (11:34 PM)   
lance i need your help with this

**Arthur** (11:34 PM)   
just got the job offer of a lifetime - off-broadway but nederlander, at the public, william sage oyen, world premiere

**Arthur** (11:35 PM)   
but the thing is the director is

 

**mErLiN <3 ** (11:35 PM)   
so what’s the dealio w/ his royal highness and this accolon kid

**mErLiN <3 ** (11:35 PM)   
HRH is currently going over one hell of a file. idk why he didn’t snap up the job straight away it sounds so good

 

He replies to Merlin first.

**dancey lancey** (11:37 PM)   
senior year didn’t go down too well for accolon and arthur i’ll tell you details irl sometime

And later to Arthur:

**Lancelot du Lac** (11:38 PM)   
accolon i’m assuming. arthur, college was so many years ago. accolon’s a vaguely forgiving person from what i’ve gathered   
**Arthur** (11:38 PM)   
i ruined his whole fucking life though   
**Arthur** (11:38PM)   
and i haven’t spoken to him since the closing night of tl5y   
**Lancelot du Lac** (11:39 PM)   
we work on broadway. we’re the greatest actors in the world. this is the best job you might get in a long time. snap it up. make the character your own. accolon’s a lenient director you can get away with almost anything even tho ur styles are pretty different

And when he sees the three bouncing dots appear and disappear just as quickly, Lance puts his phone away and goes to sleep.

_ -+- _

“That’s fucked up,” Merlin concludes, abandoning the remnants of his Red Velvet.   
Lance makes a face and nods. Merlin had taken the saga relatively easily, letting Lance do the talking. Maybe Merlin was just more engrossed in the eating aspect of the expedition, but he’d taken in the information without any vaguely violent outbreaks.    
“And now this kid’s tied to Morgana,” Merlin adds.   
“I think they’re basically one and the same, now.”   
“The biggest city in the country, and she manages to hook up with the man whose life was completely ripped to shreds by her own brother.”   
“Not like Morgana’s dreams weren’t torn apart by her own father,” Lance returns.    
Merlin remembers seeing the  _ Into the Woods  _ poster in her apartment, from the last role she ever played. The poster was beautifully designed, fairytale pages staining hills, small, red-caped girl skipping through the glade. He also visualises the frame under that - a program from the show signed by every member of the cast in cheap imitation of valuable signed playbills. He feels the passion that Morgana had for performance, inundated in the desire to sing and grand-jete her way onto any Broadway stage she could find. He sees a passion equally as strong laced through Accolon’s veins - but Accolon made it further before the other Pendragon smashed his dreams apart.

Lance finishes up his Oatmeal Scotchie, crinkling the paper bag in his hand. “And she’s turning,” he tells Merlin, “Morgana’s being lured into Accolon’s hands. Turning away from her Pendragon roots.”   
“It was going to happen eventually.”   
And the sickly sweet bell on the door chimes and Gwen and Morgana waltz in through the glass door. Gwen and  _ Morgana.  _ Not  _ Morgana and Accolon _ , just  _ Morgana.  _

Merlin looks at Lance pointedly before the two are spotted in the corner.

_ -+- _

A performer lives and dies on the stage.

They are born with the desire to find the stage, find the light; and once they’ve found it, their life seeps into the uneven coats of black paint hastily thrown over deserted sets. Their veins are twisted tightly around the ghost light left pulsing in the hallowed hall when no one else dared brave the darkness, days wasted when spent away from the light. Their instincts are so fine-tuned to express, moral compass unmistakably broken, for an audience of several thousand or none at all. They are complete on the stage, filled with a pulsing of energy strong enough to rival the most vexed fingers of lightning, the most magnificent solar flares. And they die, melting down through the cracks and the orchestra pit, dragged in silent screams away from their source of life.

But all the world’s a stage, isn't it?

_ -+- _

The crumbs mingle together - Red Velvet, Funfetti, Rocky Road, Oatmeal Scotchie - and the heartbeats too - Merlin, Gwen, Morgana, Lance, until Merlin feels the sun start to come down early and that he has a job to do. But it’s not quite time for that yet.

“But where’s your husband today?” Lance asks of Morgana, bringing up the point an hour after they’d first considered it.   
“He just got Will’s script. Insists on spending hours poring over it, never finding enough space in the margins for his notes.” She doesn’t miss a beat when asked about her ‘husband,’ smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. “Not even time for a cookie break.”   
“He picked up the job pretty quick, didn’t he,” Merlin pries.    
“Didn’t hesitate. Will told him that he’d been the first man he wanted on the show, and he snapped it up.”   
“Nothing held him back, really?” And Merlin feels Lance kick him under the table, so he resigns, swoops up his backpack by one strap and walks to the Gershwin.

_ -+- _

Merlin hears it as soon as he gets through the stagedoor and it stops him in his tracks.

_ “- got somethin’, nothin’ scares him, only piece of luck that’s ever come my way.” _

It sounds so perfect, so right pouring out of his mouth and -    
_ “Can’t wait to tell him, how much I’ve missed him.” _ __   
And there’s a new riff that Merlin’s never imagined on that last word, and -   
__ “Feelin’ sorry for James Cagney, ‘cause he’s never kissed him.”

“You didn’t have to change the pronouns,” Merlin announces his entrance to the dressing room, immediately loses his backpack, and gets to work.

_ -+- _

It’s a good show that night - Saturday nights often prove to bring in the best audiences; the tired students so relieved to have won rush tickets, the gentlemen and their wives coming back to see the show that their grandchildren brought them to a few years ago, the wide-eyed girl in the front row clad in a white crocheted dress lined with exotic laces, dark ballet flats replacing kitten heels, hands clinging tightly to paper tickets.

This is the girl Morgana remembers when she watches the show that Saturday evening. Because she knows that that girl was her. 

_ -+- _

It happens again at stagedoor; Merlin’s right hand is wrapped warmly in Arthur’s left, and the tenor’s right forearm pushes against the door and the screams flood in. Merlin lets himself get dragged along, let’s Arthur’s gentle pull lead him into what feels like a thousand selfies, and he takes photos for fans, but he doesn’t mind it at all. Strolling along at the star’s heels, hair washed gently in the bright streetlights. 

Morgana is standing at the very end of the crowd, completely confused as to what the hordes of fans see in her brother and his dresser, or alternately, boyfriend. So she retaliates and stands tall, arms tangled tightly with her director, or alternately, boyfriend. 

Arthur and Merlin finally escape the grip of the crowd, stumbling out the other end of the tunnel. Morgana extends her arm, to the end of which is attached a blue and white striped back Merlin synonymises with home.    
So Merlin reaches out for him but it’s swiped away.   
“You’ve already had your cookies for today,” Morgana cooes.   
“I’m a growing boy,” Merlin whines, as he watches the bag get handed over to Arthur.    
Arthur twitches his nose. “Caramel Apple Crisp,” he notes, “but it’s not fall anymore. Seasonal specials are strict on when they die out.”   
“Arthur,” Morgana rolls her eyes, “I get  _ paid  _ to persuade people on a daily basis.”

And that’s the moment that the girl in the crocheted dress and ballet flats comes up to ask for a photo with both Pendragons, and Morgana’s not allowed to fall apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alexander sage oyen is the lovely composer that i'm blatantly ripping off here - give his shows a listen please!!
> 
> my newest hc is that lance is a flawless dancer and can pick up the most complex choreo with a single run-through: dancey lancey just seemed right. you go, broadway
> 
> i have the biggest maths exam i've ever needed to do ever tomorrow, and i'm royally fucked !!! thanks merlin!!!!!!


	19. coconut chip

**chapter eighteen / coconut chip**

Merlin composed his first song when he was fourteen.

 _the light from the stars_  
_shines against all odds_  
_on the broken backs of heros_  
_because they’re not gods_

 _and the little boys are running,_  
_don’t dare to face the frauds_  
_in the streets of london town_ _  
_ because they think they’re gods.

_-+-_

“And in a thousand years, or when,  
The villains give the nods,  
I’ll send you back up Olympus,  
And you’ll go rejoin the gods.”

Arthur sings the final lines of his first sold out solo show when he is twenty four.

Of course the crowd erupts, the entirety of Feinstein’s 54 Below standing and clapping like there’d be no tomorrow. There are critics, who would tomorrow write about how Arthur bled his soul into every last word, every last note. There are the fans, who had begged, borrowed, and stole for a ticket to the show, alight phones turned upside down just in case they were caught recording. There’s the staff, the waiters supposed to be on standby as soon as the room starts to empty, but they’re clapping too, the last words lacing through their brains.

And there is Merlin, too, but he’s not standing. He’s not clapping, not shouting, not proclaiming his undying love for the man with his eyes closed, head tilted back, neck exposed, as the piano tinkles away its final notes into oblivion. Merlin sits still and smiles. He wants to remember this day forever. He watches the silver lights dance along Arthur’s cheekbones as a strand of hair falls from his forehead. Sees the Namibian sky stretching for miles in the space of his eyes, glowing with a blue-hot energy when Arthur finally opens them.

Merlin thinks that this must be how it feels to be in love.

_-+-_

The cast list for a college show usually takes a week, at most, to be posted. So when the waiting for the cast list for _The Last Five Years_ ticks over into its eighth day, the entire college, from performance to design to media and back over, is kept on the edge of its seat.

They get the email on the ninth day.

 _FALL MUSICAL CAST LIST_ _  
_ _The Last Five Years by JASON ROBERT BROWN (2001)_

_Director..................................................................................... TBA_

  
_Jamie...........................................................................Accolon Gaul_  
_Cathy....................................................................Morgause Belisent_  
_Jamie U/S.............................................................. Arthur Pendragon_ _  
_ Cathy U/S ........................................................................ Sophia Fey

 _First cast meeting: September 24th, 8:30PM in the Camelot Auditorium._  
_Rehearsals every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday thenceforth from 7:30-10PM._  
_Tickets available September 30th._ _  
_ See Prof. Gaius for further information.

“ _Understudy_ ,” Uther belts out over the phone, a hundred miles away. “They separate ‘understudy’ and ‘Pendragon’ by a line of dots and an ‘Arthur.’ They cast a _scholarship kid_ in place of a _Pendragon_.” He spits out the words, and Arthur can practically feel it through his phone.

Two weeks later, an updated version of the cast list is sent out.

 _FALL MUSICAL CAST LIST: UPDATED_ _  
_ _The Last Five Years by JASON ROBERT BROWN (2001)_

_Director..................................................................................... Accolon Gaul_

  
_Jamie....................................................................Arthur Pendragon_  
_Cathy....................................................................Morgause Belisent_  
_Jamie U/S.............................................................. Percival Dindrane_ _  
_ Cathy U/S ........................................................................ Sophia Fey

 _Students: remember to buy your tickets with your student number at least a week before the show for your student discount. That leaves you five days before your discount expires! It pays to have these opportunities when you’re all either a broke college student or a Pendragon._ _  
_ _Prof. Gaius_

_-+-_

Morgana writes about the show on Monday morning. She doesn’t often write about things Arthur does, but she spends a good chunk of her morning rewording paragraphs about the solo show. And the article is published by 11:21, the names racking up the visits to the website in no time.

One comment pops up underneath the article about eleven minutes after publishing that catches Morgana’s eye. The comment has nothing to do with it - it’s the profile photo attached to it. Arthur is in the photo, and so is Morgana. It’s the girl in the ballet flats and crocheted dress.

_-+-_

Arthur, as an understudy, has to go to every rehearsal anyway. He learns the part quickly, sitting in the back row of the theatre, legs lazily crossed - Jamie is a role based much more on emotional interpretation than blocking, he discovers - and it’s not like the principles are hard to learn from anyway.

Accolon belongs on the stage. He breathes and the proscenium is alight with the fire hidden in his words. He clenches his fist and the empty orchestra pit is flooding with the melodies of a hundred violins, bows flying, wrists twirling. He finishes his song and the stage is washed in sudden shadows, disrupted only by the movement of his chest heaving up and down in an effort to gain back the soul he’d just thrown to the empty hall. Accolon’s high A’s are the best that Arthur has ever heard, filling the volume of the theatre with incredible ease in the space of four bars. And he sings one of Arthur’s all time favourite showtunes now, and Arthur is so incredibly jealous.

 

_“If I didn't believe in you_

_We'd never have gotten this far_

_If I didn't believe in you_

_And all of the ten thousand women you are_

_If I didn't think you could do_

_Anything you ever wanted to_

_If I wasn't certain that you'd come through somehow_

_The fact of the matter is, Cathy_

_I wouldn't be standing here now.”_

_-+-_

“If I didn't believe in you

We wouldn't be having this fight.”

It’s the second last song in the set.

The lights are low, misty, fuzzy, bathing Arthur’s face in a glow resembling that of the moonlight daring to look at the sun when it’s not supposed to. Arthur sings it like he doesn’t know it’s the second last song in the set. His dots the rhythms when he feels like it, holding onto the highest notes of phrases just long enough to tug at the heartstrings of the girls in the front row. He doesn’t care that Jason Robert Brown _himself_ is somewhere in the audience tonight - he can’t see the faces of the people except one man and his dark hair sitting at the table furthest from the stage.

“It never took much convincing

To make me believe in you.

Don't we get to be happy, Cathy?

At some point down the line

Don't we get to relax?”

And he can feel the piano picking up behind him, lets the thoughts of how Jason Robert Brown would play it differently seep into his head; maybe Jason is tapping the chords out onto the tall tables right now. Maybe his foot is tapping against the floor, padding against the carpet gently before pressing back into the air.

“I don't want you to hurt

I don't want you to sink

But you know what I think?

I think you'll be fine!”

He holds on his vowels, holds onto them like he was always trained to before he breaks off into the last consonant of every word. He holds onto the microphone, one hand halfway up the stand, one hand gripping tightly over the top. He holds onto the darkness of the back of his eyelids, shutting off one of his senses to prevent himself from being overwhelmed by the other four.

“Just hang on and you'll see-

But don't make me wait till you do

To be happy with you

Will you listen to me?!

No one can give you courage

No one can thicken your skin.”

Maybe Accolon is in the audience tonight, he thinks, and his voice cracks. Of course Accolon is in the audience, because Morgana is in the audience, and this is the song that he stole further and further from the scholarship kid with every drop of that stupid oil. Maybe Accolon has one hand pressed lightly to the small of Morgana’s back, maybe the other hand runs up and down his throat in memory of what could have been.

“I will not fail so you can be comfortable, Cathy

I will not lose because you can't win.”

What did Accolon think about when he sang this for the two weeks that he got to? Whose name did he mark down as subtext in the sheet music, when he passed mindlessly through his Method techniques, and Stanislavski? What pulled out those gorgeous notes from his throat before Arthur went and tore his dreams apart.

“If I didn't believe in you

I couldn't have stood before all of our friends

And said, "This is the life I choose-

This is the thing I can't bear to lose

Trip us or trap us, but we refuse to fall."”

Arthur knows who he’s singing about. Knows the name he scribbled in all the margins on the sheet music during the rehearsals he got for this show. Knows that his muse wouldn’t dare sit at the front few tables for fear of being picked up by the cameras which recorded even though they were prohibited to. And he recounts those twenty eight shows that he suffered through over three weeks, but he lets loose the memories of the show that he started his career with and ended someone else’s. But it’s mainly Merlin.

“That's what I thought we agreed on, Cathy

If I hadn't believed in you

I wouldn't have loved you at all.”

_-+-_

Arthur claps when Accolon finishes, watches the chest still heaving up and down in the shadows on the stage, and walks out of the theatre having learned more in these two and a half hours than in seventeen years of expensive acting classes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poem about the gods was something i just came up with on the spot so it's a little dodgy mind that! but it's based on the fact that Arthur acts a fuckton like Apollo a lot I guess  
> Feinstein's 54 Below (I think I've talked about before) is an awesome space in the broadway community where artists can do little shows in an intimate setting, where the audience eats dinner and listens to exquisite music at the same time yeah i wish i could go there :/  
> the last five years, again, i've talked about a lot.  
> thanks for supporting this fic, and thanks for being patient with the updates as I plunge into exam season :))


	20. blueberry cobbler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok broadway time:  
> tyrants is an actual musical by alex oyen, but I couldn't find any info on it so I just kind of fumbled my way through it but it's still historically accurate !!  
> also the song that you're going to find, the bro duet, is the best thing any human has ever composed. i just had to put it in.

**chapter nineteen / blueberry cobbler**

Accolon was in his first show when he was six. It was a school play, a dumbed down version of _Agamemnon_ for children to understand. Accolon had played Agamemnon, of course, sweeping grandly across the small school-hall stage in his bedsheet toga. He remembers bowing a little too deeply at the end of closing night, soaking in the applause before he almost lost his balance. He remembers the flowers that his Clytaemestra placed in his arms after that final show, the most gorgeous gerberas and shining marigolds and -

This was when his allergies had taken over, the lavender quickly strewn over the floor of their ‘dressing room,’ (the boy’s bathrooms down the hall) and Accolon had his face buried in the sink closest to him as he felt the bumps of a rash pushing up against his skin.

Clytaemestra had stayed outside the door of the boy’s bathrooms, too scared to come in, yelling Accolon’s name over and over again through the wall until her mother came to pick her up.

Accolon stayed in the bathroom until one in the morning, when he finally realised that his father was too drunk to pick him up and his mother had long forgotten he’d been in a play.

_-+-_

“I’m taking it,” Arthur says, “I’m taking the job.”

Merlin is still lying face-down in the mountain of pillows he’d just grown accustomed to. Arthur’s apartment is warm, but even warmer with the both of them in it. Arthur has been pacing, lamenting for the past hour on the pros and cons of the job at hand.  
“I’ll create a character, which is basically every actor’s dream, immortalising themselves in a show,” Arthur says.   
“I’d play the Public Theater, which has been a dream for so long,” Arthur says.   
“The show’s gorgeous, in itself, and Will Oyen is scarily talented,” Arthur says.   
“Even Uther wants me to take it,” Arthur groans and flops backwards onto the bed.

“I _still_ don’t see why you’re hesitating. Accolon’s -” Merlin grimaces when he sees Arthur flinch minutely - “not a complete dick most of the time, and you know, this show’s a good fucking idea.”   
“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur rolls onto his side, meeting Merlin’s eyes halfway. “Let me draw for you a simple diagram to show you what happens if I take one step out of line.” He presses a finger into the sheets, drawing circles as he talks.   
“This is me,” a circle, “this is Accolon,” another circle, “and this is Morgana,” and another. “They’re fucking each other,” a line between the second and third circles, “and if I fuck something up, this happens.” He traces a line from Morgana’s circle to his own, and presumes to erase the dent in the sheets from existence. “I fuck up, Accolon blows up, Morgana makes the entire city turn against me. I never get a job again, and rot slowly as I die a slow excruciating death.”   
“I’ll call Will and tell him you’re taking the job,” Merlin’s nose plants itself back in the pillows, “but now, hush. Back to sleep.”

_-+-_

**Muuurleen** (10:01 AM)   
ok so my lord is gonna take ur job expect a call from uther in the next hour

 **Muuurleen** (10:01 AM)   
make that the next ten minutes

 **Muuurleen** (10:02 AM)   
this goddamn city never sleeps

 **my WILL to live** (10:04 AM)   
thanks merl i’m not gonna question how many hours of pacing you tolerated on this one, i’ll send you through some sheet music

 **Muuurleen** (10:05 AM)   
anything 4 u

 **Muuurleen** (10:05 AM)   
but i still can’t fuckin print since my lord decided to SIT on my printer while trying to be hot

 **my WILL to live** (10:05 AM)   
oh my god why am i hiring this man

 **my WILL to live** (10:05 AM)   
i’ll see you at schmackary’s at 11 then?

 **Muuurleen** (10:06 AM)   
make it one i’m not leaving this apartment until someone physically drags me from it. plus it’s a two show day

_-+-_

Will is sitting with a Cereal Killer and a Red Velvet when Merlin arrives at a quarter past one.  
“You’re early,” Will notes, pressing a button so his phone flashes the time at him.   
“One of my many quirks,” Merlin grins.

_-+-_

“ _Mer_ lin, we’ve got to do something about this odd punctuality of yours.”   
Merlin drops the heavy stack of sheet music and libretto on Arthur’s dressing room table. “And you’ve got a show to learn, so I suggest you get to that before you get to critiquing my lifestyle choices.”

_-+-_

“They’re so low-key on the romance,” Gwen says that evening as she makes her usual stagedoor rounds after the show, “I was expecting them to be completely joined at the mouth as soon as they got together. I guess they were so domestic already that now it’s just kind of elevated even more, Merlin being a mother duck and Arthur making heart eyes at him all the time. When you think about it, it’s sickeningly sweet.”

The stagedoor swings open again, as if on cue, and the crowd goes wild. “Maybe not joined at the mouth, but joined at the hip, definitely,” Gwen shakes her head mockingly as Merlin and Arthur dive into the selfies without a second’s hesitation. “Slaves of romance,” she recaps a sharpie and hands it back with the playbill accompanying it.

_-+-_

So this is what makes life divine.

Merlin is at Arthur’s again that night, and he’s still not over the fact that there’s a _baby grand piano_ in the middle of his apartment in the middle of _New York City._ So he plays Will’s score, and Arthur reads the music from over his shoulder, tantalisingly gorgeous as he croons out the notes at the bottom of his range.

Sometimes Merlin dares to sing a harmony here and there, when there’s a particularly good one gracing the baritone part of the chorus as Arthur belts out a solo on top. The music floats out of the open windows of the studio apartment like this, well into the small hours of the morning, until Arthur fishes out an expensive bottle of whiskey from a drawer Merlin didn’t know existed. And this is the night that Arthur learns that tipsy Merlin loves to belt anything at the top of his lungs. Merlin fishes out a song from the stack of sheet music that Arthur doesn’t even have to learn, but the title catches his eye, and he doesn’t regret it as he keeps singing.

 _“Hey dude,”_ Merlin sings the first line he sees, and Arthur is only too happy to oblige if he gets to hear Merlin sing.   
_“Yeah, bro,”_ Arthur puts on the accent he can only imagine the notes are laced with.   
_“I’ve got something I have to get off my chest.”_   
_“Okay dude.”_   
_“Hey dude,”_ Merlin slurs the rhythms, _“we’ve been best friends for a really long time now.”_   
_“Yeah, dude.”_   
_“And there’s something that I need you to know.”_   
_“Okay.”_   
_“Remember that time we went surfing,_   
_And I almost drowned,_   
_And you dragged me to the beach,_   
_And performed CPR.”_   
Arthur’s slightly amazed at how Merlin manages to hit all the right notes on the keyboard, even at this level of intoxication. His right hand tinkles away up the end of the keyboard, light quavers making him giggle.   
_“Well, no homo,”_ Merlin shrugs his shoulders, _“but that’s the day I fell in love with you._   
_No homo, that’s the day I knew you were mine._   
_Looking into your eyes made me realise,_   
_That no homo - but your lips touching mine,_   
_Changed my life.”_   
_“Bro,”_ Arthur shoves Merlin just softly enough for him not to fall of the piano stool, _“I totally get what you’re saying.”_   
_“You do?”_   
_“Remember that time at Disney world,_   
_When I ate that giant turkey leg?”_   
_“YES!”_   
_“And I started choking,_   
_Until you came along.”_   
_“Yeah I came!”_ And this is the first time Merlin has dare belted in front of Arthur - the man whose belting was said to clear the skin of angsty sixteen year old Broadway fangirls. He holds the G-flat for the whole semibreve it’s marked in for, and Arthur would let his jaw drop right there and then because why isn’t this man a famous tenor too, but he has lines to sight read.   
_“No homo, but that’s the day I fell in love with you.”_   
_“We’re so not gay!”_ There’s an A-flat in that line, and it sounds so gorgeous on Merlin’s tongue, Arthur thinks.   
_“No homo, that’s the day I knew you were right._   
_Your body pressed into mine,_   
_Somehow didn’t cross the line._ ”   
_“Why would it have?”_   
_“No homo, but that day changed my life.”_   
And they get to sing together - there’s a harmony there and Arthur doesn’t know who’s going to take the top line and who’s going to take the bottom, so he replies on his instincts and flits his eyes upwards. He smiles, perhaps too widely, when he hears Merlin slip smoothly into the gorgeous baritone line.

 _“The outside world might see us as gay,_   
_But bro, we swear we’re not._   
_We’re just two bros chilling out,_   
_And I think you’re really hot -”_   
_“Hot-some,”_ Merlin squints as the letters blur together a little.   
“Hot-some. That’s not a thing,” Arthur riffs on it, realising that he’s having too much fun.

 _“Snuggling with you under the covers,”_ he tilts his head from side to side with each beat, _“no homo.”_   
_“Spooning with you just like we’re lovers - no homo.”_ Merlin’s eyes start to give up on him, so he improvises some of the piano part that he hasn’t quite picked up on yet. Arthur thinks it might even sound a little better his way.   
_“Our lips touching for a minute or two, but no homo.”_   
_“It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you...”_   
_“It totally is!”_   
_“No homo, but let’s find an apartment together,”_ and they’re singing together again, the harmony back, the two of them syncing into their respective lines without even needing to think about which way the other would go.   
_“No homo, let’s save money by sharing a bed._   
_Looking into your eyes,_   
_Made me realise,”_   
At this point, Arthur’s taken a glance at the rest of the song and sings it straight to Merlin’s eyes instead. He doesn’t know if he’s acting anymore, or just singing for Merlin, words curling around the edges of the baby grand.   
_“That I love you more than you could ever know,_   
_My bro.”_   
Merlin almost looks away. But there are two more words on the page.   
“No homo.”

_-+-_

“Who got cast as those two again? In that song?” Merlin asks the next morning, arms as tangled in Arthur’s as his words had been last night.  
“Mmm,” Arthur mumbles, “Gwaine and Percival.”   
“The two straightest men on Broadway.”   
“Perfect casting, if I do say so myself.”

_-+-_

The email comes at 10 o’clock on the dot.

_-+-_

_TYRANTS: A New Musical_

_By WILLIAM SAGE OYEN_   
_Produced by NEDERLANDER_

_at the Public Theater_

_Director..................................................................................... Accolon Gaul_

_Edwin Booth..........................................................................Arthur Pendragon_   
_John Wilkes Booth....................................................................Mordred Medraut_   
_Adam Badeau.............................................................................Gwaine Lothian_   
_Mary Devlin ................................................................................................ TBA_   
_Ulysses S. Grant......................................................................Percival Dindrane_

_Ensemble.......................................................................................Freya Bastet,_   
_Tristain de Bois, Cenred Essetir, Sophia Fey, Leon Gaunnes, Agravain Orkney._

_First cast meeting: November 10th, 8:30PM at Cide Show Rehearsal Studios_   
_Rehearsals according to schedule._

_-+-_

“They haven’t cast the supporting soprano yet,” Morgana reads the email over Accolon’s shoulder, “seems like they’re pushing it, with four weeks of rehearsal before previews.  
“I know they’re getting Morgause in for the first few weeks of workshops, but she had a previous commitment to a show in England, so they couldn't hold onto her for the actual show,” Accolon taps his fingers on the space of desk beside his keyboard.   
“I pity the girl who has to marry my brother eight times a week, anyway. Gwen has it bad enough, without the vows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twenty chapters. what an emotional journey. oh maaaaaan.


	21. mocha java

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> words:  
> helen badiene mora: as Morgana's vocal coach I'm making her a mix of Helen Mora and Badiene Magaziner, a mix of a canon character and an actual NYC based vocal coach :))  
> sleeping sideways: an actual gorgeous song by bobby cronin (listen to it, it's gorgeous) that is pretty damn hard to sing but so amazing if you can pull it off

**chapter twenty / mocha java**

Uther cried on his wedding day. 

He remembers Igraine’s hands, cold to the touch, long white fingernails twining delicately over his broad hands. He remembers the antique lace stretching up her elegant neck, the softest choking hands around her throat. The flower crown gracing her dark hair - heliotrope ( _ devotion _ ,) jasmine ( _ attachment _ ,) and dahlia ( _ a lasting bond, elegance, dignity. _ ) He remembers the stars which must have surrounded his eyes, replaced only by tired wrinkles now; his smooth dark suit pressed to perfection, not a crease in sight. He remembers that, at one point, he must’ve been handsome enough to make someone as wonderful as Igraine his wife.

Igraine was twenty one, heart full of love and eyes wide enough that the entire world could fill them.

Now, Igraine is dead. Uther is much the same, imprisoned, chained to his office chair.

_ -+- _

Tonight, Morgana finishes her first singing lesson in thirteen years and she feels like a goddess. 

She is on top of the world, proving to have inherited her mother’s range, her brother’s vocal strength, her father’s determination. She marches down the sidewalk to her apartment in the dark hours, coat wrapped tightly around her. The chill in the air is picking up, and when she swings open the door at home, she learns that it certainly helps to have a boyfriend who cooks better than any gourmet chef in the world  _ and  _ a functioning heating system.

_ -+- _

“And so it appears that no Pendragon misses out on the gift of an angel’s voice,” Helen Badiene Mora, one of the most renowned New York based singing coaches, claps enthusiastically after Morgana finishes her first song.

She shamelessly picks  _ On The Steps Of The Palace,  _ bridging a hole in her heart thirteen years wide, not even needing to look up the words after all this time. 

“Why did you stop performing?” Helen asks, sitting on the opposite side of the studio. Morgana looks down.   
“Uther,” she replies, “was only too keen on Arthur making it to Broadway. He made sure I fizzled out by the time I was fourteen. Arthur got onto Broadway when he was eighteen and it broke my heart.” She nods slowly with her words, the facts usually no longer drilling into her numb core. But tonight is different. Tonight, something has changed, the future is full of possibility even after thirteen wasted years of longing and sympathetic looks from her friends. When Gwen squeezed her hand at stagedoor, when they saw Arthur swamped by fans for the first time, after making his Broadway debut. When Gwaine was reprimanded by his producer for tweeting what days he’d be on as the lead. When her father hadn’t bothered to show up for any of her  _ Into the Woods  _ performances, choosing to keep himself locked up in his office instead. When the little girl with ballet flats and that crocheted dress had asked for a photo at the Gershwin stagedoor.   
Helen hugs her, as she holds back tears of what could have been.

_ -+- _

“Again, about opening that brunch cafe on 7th,” Morgana pipes between mouthfuls.   
“We could grow old together. Serving eggs benedict and avocado toast and ridiculously overpriced smoothies that people come from the ends of the earth for.”   
“Start out as a little hole in the wall place, with bicycle racks on the side. All rustic and gorgeous with poison ivy climbing up the bricks, and a rusted balustrade fencing the place off.”   
“A blackboard menu that we re-write every morning in chalk. Specially designed drinks for certain shows.”

“Donut freakshakes.”   
“ _ Cookie freakshakes _ , after we set up a partnership with Schmackary’s.”   
“I like your thinking,” Morgana grins over the top of her fork. She is so, so, besotted with this man, lost in his dangerous eyes, tangled in the web of his charm. She has spent a month and a half with his name on the top of her lips, and now three weeks with him rooted firmly in her bed and in her heart with no easy means of escape. 

Not to say that either of them would turn down a challenge.

_ -+- _

Merlin and Arthur don’t have much of a schedule, so to speak, but Monday evenings are always spent at Arthur’s. They function together in the exact same way that they used to, except now they sleep over at each other’s more often, make out a lot more, and have their neighbours filing ‘unwelcome noise’ complaints in the small hours of the morning. 

Merlin does the dishes like they’re an old married couple, and Arthur definitely doesn’t think that the soap suds are unreasonably adorable when they climb up Merlin’s arms, and he’s definitely obligated to go over there are brush them off one by one because of that. 

“If you would perhaps,” Merlin croons, nonchalantly, “leave me alone for one second, I’d be able to finish the dishes, and you can have your way after that.”   
“Mmm,” Arthur nuzzles his nose into Merlin’s shoulder and wraps his arms around his waist, “don’t think so.”

And so Merlin has to navigate the pile of dishes with the weight of an additional human strapped to his back. Not that he really minds.

_ -+- _

“I don’t see how this is a good idea in any way, shape, or form,” Lance states, hands on his hips, as Gwen moves speedily around her apartment.   
“Love,” she pauses in front of him for a second, running her hands up and down his forearms, “nothing’s going to go wrong.”

This is what happens just before the two find themselves snuck into the Hotel Americano rooftop pool as the moonlight washes over them. It is unlike either of them to sneak into a heavily guarded facility in the middle of the night, but neither of them have a matinee tomorrow, and when you’re young and in love you have all of the time in the world.

“If anyone confronts us, we just pretend that you’re an Estonian political representative who’s lost your translator and I’m your semi-estranged wife who skipped all her English lessons in high school.”   
“Specific,” Lance notes, preparing himself for the expedition.   
“We’re actors,” Gwen grins, “we can get away with anything.”

And they do.

The water is cold, pulling at their bare limbs, but they still have that electric warmth that flows through the both of them when they’re connected, current strong and unwavering. Lance still has those fireworks stained into his skin wherever Gwen’s fingertips dare to brush over. Or grab at his arms and pull him straight down into the freezing deep end. Anything goes.

_ -+- _

Gwaine spends too many nights at the bar now.

He doesn’t need to bring friends with him; he makes new ones wherever he goes, his calm words intoxicating people just as much as the alcohol in their hands. He spends the days rehearsing, and the nights not on stage he spends at a new bar in the city. Nobody is ever brave enough to question him about it.

The days are long but the nights are longer. Sometimes, that’s a good thing.

_ -+- _

If you wake up in New York, you wake up in love.

_ -+- _

**Morgana** (4:26 PM)   
how many voice lessons do you do a week when ur not in a show?

**pendragon #3** **  
** Probably three?

_ -+- _

“So how many lessons would you like a week?”   
“Three, thanks Helen. Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, if that works.”   
“Anything for you, lovely,” Helen says as she the appointments into her physical planner, an actual book, laid out across the corner of her desk. She already has a folder set up for Morgana, possible audition songs and a repertoire organised, everything from legit soprano ballads to contemporary songs and their unexpected chords.   
“So I’ll be seeing you this weekend, then.”   
“See you then, Morgana.”

She only goes to her singing lessons in the dark of night, surrounded safely by her hooded coat, eyes lowered as she walks along the footpaths that lead her home. She doesn’t want to know what would happen to her if her father found out.

_ -+- _

Merlin waits in the lobby of the agency.

“You can come up,  _ Mer _ lin, nobody’s going to cut your head off.”   
“Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it. I’m staying down here.”   
“Your choice,” Arthur purses his lips as the elevator doors shut and whisk him quickly into the sky.

_ -+- _

Helen picks out the next song.

_ “Sleeping sideways, _ __  
_ So she feels, _ _  
_ __ Better.”

It’s slow, wistful, and the pedals pressed down on the piano echo gently through the studio as Morgana sight reads.

_ “She pulls the covers close, _ __  
_ To feel a little less, _ _  
_ __ Alone.”

It’s in F major, and Morgana likes F major. It’s not too bright for a major key, nothing too lurid and shiny. 

_ “Sleeping sideways, _ __  
_ In this sacred bed that’s made for two.  _ __  
_ Like the street light, _ __  
_ Outside her window, _ _  
_ __ Where the couples kiss goodnight.”

She smiles into the words, letting them fill the studio until she’s drowning in the song.

_ -+- _

“I called you in today,” Uther commands, “to make sure that you take this show seriously. It’s your first off-Broadway, and it’s being produced by  _ James Nederlander.  _ Even with the names in my phone, you’re not going to get an opportunity like this again any time soon.”   
“Of course,” Arthur shifts slightly in his chair. He is dead set on taking the show as seriously as he can handle, already preparing his rehearsal kit flooded with spare paper, an extra copy of the script pages he knows are going to get too annotated too quickly, a year’s supply of pencils and yellow highlighters.    
“Get on with it then,” Uther waves a hand, not bothering to look at his son, dismissing him from the office. “Your first rehearsal is this Sunday, ten o’clock, Cide Show. Don’t be late, Arthur.”   
Arthur doesn’t quite catch the last few words. He’s already gone. 

_ -+- _

_ “But it’s just her, _ __  
_ Oh, nothing is what it really seems, _ __  
_ Like a frightened girl with a history of silence, _ __  
_ Waiting to explode with laughter, _ __  
_ A lonely heart waiting patiently, _ __  
_ So easily shattered. _ _  
_ __ Just like her.”

_ -+- _

“Ten o’clock tomorrow, Merlin, ten o’clock, ten o’clock at Cide Show Rehearsal Studios. Ten o’clo - oh, why am I telling you,  _ Mer _ lin, talking to you about being punctual is like shouting out underwater.”   
“I’m on it. Make sure you get to bed nice and early. Nutritious dinner. That means no Thai takeout -” Arthur whines, “and I am  _ not  _ staying over.”

Out of all of Arthur’s heroic qualities, he’s not very good at compromising. So when Merlin leaves him alone at the stagedoor that evening, proclaiming that “I have half an hour before my call time, I’m not going to be  _ early, _ ” Arthur pouts all the way to his dressing room. Now, he’s in the habit of noticing the amount of time that he spends away from Merlin. It’s clearly not his favourite thing to do.

_ -+- _

_ “She likes to lay in the park, _ __  
_ Watching people live their lives. _ __  
_ Sometimes the heart, _ __  
_ Is painfully smart, _ __  
_ It tortures her mind, _ __  
_ While lost in her prime. _ _  
_ __ And then she’s out of time.”

_ -+- _

But Merlin comes back - of course, Merlin  _ always  _ comes back - bearing cookies, and Arthur is reminded why he loves this man. 

“Get on with it,” Merlin turns to face him, when he notices Arthur staying mysteriously still. Not that Arthur just likes to look at Merlin sometimes, watches how he does his job, long fingers twisting around coat hangers so calmly, swishing expensive velvetine costumes across his arms. Not that Arthur loses track of what he’s doing, hands stilled, fingers still coated in hair gel, when Merlin starts humming gently as he puts the coats in the right order along the rack, moving each hand to the beat of the contemporary showtunes. Not that Arthur smiles without realising when he thinks about Merlin every second of every day, but now Merlin’s allowed to catch him with that stupid smile plastered on his face. Not that Merlin loves it too. 

They don’t need to talk, relishing in the concoction of melodies being created in the building; the Sondheim floating down the hall from Gwen, the riffs off an older Jason Robert Brown song coming from Morgause’s dressing room, Mordred and Kara harmonising on a stylistic version of a Boublil and Schönberg classic. And tonight Arthur is humming the melody from Merlin’s own song, placing his star in the constellation of the greats. Merlin smiles into his sleeve as he moves a rack from one side of the wings to the other. 

_ -+- _

_ “Sleeping sideways, _ __  
_ For her lover’s hand, she’s waiting, _ __  
_ For the shadows, twisted by fate. _ __  
_ You’ll find her here, _ _  
_ __ Sleeping sideways,”

_ -+- _

Merlin is getting better at selfies at stagedoor. This is how it usually works; Arthur accepts the sharpie, signs the playbill, hands it back. When prompted for a selfie -  _ “with Merlin, please, if that’s okay!”  _ \- Arthur gets in the habit of surprising the recipient by taking the photo himself. Arthur on the left, arm outstretched, fan in the middle, Merlin on the right, hands still connected around the back. It makes Merlin’s day to see the smile on the faces of the kids who get sandwiched between the two of them, though he personally doesn’t see the appeal of it. But he understands that Arthur is the actual  _ inspiration  _ for half of the people in this crowd every night, counting down the days until they get to see him in person for a handful of seconds. And Merlin is a welcome bonus afterwards.

After getting through the stagedoor crowd, Merlin stretches out his legs, tired from squatting ever so slightly in every single selfie so that Arthur looks just that little bit taller than him.

_ -+- _

_ “So she doesn’t have to feel, _ _  
_ _ Alone.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pendragon #3, you ask?  
> of course morgana implies that she is pendragon #1, but if anyone asked, it'd be uther in that #1 spot.  
> (MAKE ME STUDY, PLEASE)


	22. sch'mores

**chapter twenty one / sch’mores**

It takes Gwen all of the first fifteen years of her life to convince herself that she’s good enough for musical theatre.

She spends the days with earphones in, music shuffling through the twenty-six different original cast recordings she’s downloaded illegally onto her phone. She spends the afternoons either at a dance lesson, a vocal lesson, acting class, all of these happening twice a week. Sunday is the only day she spends away from some form of training, but she spends the whole day either with friends or stays in her room, creating. She choreographs routines to recordings, from thirty-second overtures to fourteen minute dramatic scenes, getting angry at herself when she zones out for a while in the middle and has to go back and restart the song because she wasn’t paying complete attention. 

She turns up to her dance studio one Wednesday afternoon, and watches an older boy practicing a part of his partner routine to  _ Somewhere Over The Rainbow _ before her class starts. He’s good, Gwen knows, and she’s a little intimidated when the teacher asks her to step in for a few steps to dance as his partner, just to see how things flow. 

“Leon, you know where you’re going from. Gwen, watch me do it once, it’ll be relatively simple for you, and then you’ll fill in so I can take a look.”

Gwen nods, smiling politely at the boy who she doesn’t know will be an understudy in the Broadway show she’ll  _ headline  _ within the next ten years, and raises her arms as instructed when the music starts to fill the room. 

Five years after that, she suggests some of the choreography she learned on that day in her college’s spring production of  _ The Wizard of Oz.  _

“Maybe the Scarecrow should start further upstage left, then weave further down as the song goes on. I guess it kind of fits the flow better rather than him entering downstage.”   
“I see where you’re coming from,” her director taps his pen against his teeth, “okay, Percival, same thing, but this time, start upstage left and let it flow from there.”

Gwen plays Dorothy, curly hair pinned back into two youthful braids.

This is the story Gwen remembers today, as she prepares for her show as the Wicked Witch of the West.

_ -+- _

“Good luck,” Morgana blows a kiss out the open window of her car when she drops Accolon off at Cide Show rehearsal studios that morning.

Accolon is at the rehearsal studio by nine, an hour before he’s required. He finds the studio they’ve been allocated without much effort, knowing the building like the back of his hand. Upon pushing open the glass door to the studio, he purses his lips at the sight of the stacked chairs, the ones with the little swing-up tables attached to one side, resting lazily in the corner. So he sets about putting out eleven chairs in a circle for the cast, adding an extra three after that for Will, James Nederlander, and himself. It’s quarter past by the time he sets his bag down underneath a chair he then claims as his own, drawing out a clipboard and his copy of the script, and a pen from his pocket. 

The next person to show up is Will, by half past, who deposits himself in the chair next to Accolon, wide smile plastered on his face.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Accolon prompts.   
Will exhales strongly. “Today is the first rehearsal for my first off-Broadway show that’s being produced by  _ James fucking Nederlander,  _ being headlined by the most famous acts in New York City, and being directed by Accolon Gaul, renowned through all the land.”   
“Fair enough,” Accolon taps his pen on the top of his clipboard. Will swings his legs around into a more civilised sitting position as the glass door is opened again, ejecting one Mordred Medraut into the studio. He carries nothing except a well-read copy of the script which he carries nonchalantly curled under one arm, which Accolon is about to query him about, when he promptly places the script down and pulls what must be an entire stationery store from his pockets. 

“Nifty,” Will comments, as Mordred pulls pencils and highlighters alike from his pockets. The young tenor smiles in acknowledgement. 

Morgause is the next to arrive, at twenty to, assuming the seat left between Mordred and Accolon. Her script is heavily annotated with blocks and blocks of notes compressed into the margins, yet looks as if it hasn’t been touched. 

“Morgause,” Accolon starts when she sits down, “just to confirm, how many weeks out of our six rehearsal weeks are you here for?”   
“I mean, I’m available for five weeks, and by available, I mean in the country. But I imagine you’ll like more than one week with your  _ actual,  _ off-Broadway-bound Mary Devlin.”   
“As soon as we find her,” Will mutters under his breath, a cue for the storming in of most of the ensemble, filling up the circle of seats.   
“It’ll be fine,” Accolon assures, “the streets are flooding with sopranos these days.”   
“Yeah, a soprano with an impossible range, voice stronger than Schwarzenegger, and looks like she could kill a man with her bare hands.” Will shifts in his seat a little, the future daunting and closer than ever.   
“We’ll find her,” Accolon claps the composer lightly on the shoulder, “she might be closer to us than we think.”

_ -+- _

“See,” Merlin drops Arthur’s hand when they turn the last corner, on the street of the building they’re looking for, “not gonna be late. We’ll be like, ten whole minutes early. You’re welcome.” He uses his newly freed hand to point accusingly at the two Fiyero’s he’s walking with. He utilises his long legs and turns and walks backwards, showing off, easily keeping up with them.   
“That’s got to be a first,” Leon murmurs, and Merlin warns him with a look. Arthur grins.   
“We’re not  _ there  _ yet,” then Arthur demandingly wags his arm around until his hand finds Merlin’s again, and they continue their march down the street.    
“Merlin,” Arthur eventually stops, “what’s going on? Firstly, you’re being punctual. Secondly, where’s that stupid backpack of yours?”   
Merlin looks down at the tan leather satchel hanging from his shoulder. It’s almost fashionable. It’s also a much better size for carrying sheet music without the corners getting crumpled than his backpack.   
“Thought that that  _ stupid backpack of mine  _ might like a break today,” Merlin swings his arm back and forth as they walk, causing Arthur to rock backwards and forwards against his will. He’s pouting in silent protest, and that alone warms Merlin up inside.

_ -+- _

Gwaine and Percival arrive together; the latter swinging open the glass door with a little too much enthusiasm. Accolon winces a little for fear that he’d crash it right off of its hinges. But Percival gives a quaint salute and takes a seat next to Mordred, Gwaine sitting on his other side. 

“Will,” Gwaine pipes up, “ _ The Bro Duet  _ is officially the best song they’re ever going to have put on any stage in the world.” He winks and shoves Percival in the side, and Mordred ignores the deflection of unused energy he gets having been seated next to Percival, running a hand through his curls to prevent himself from speaking up.   
“Sickeningly heterosexual,” Will whispers to Accolon, who laughs in response.

It is at this moment that the room silences, and one could only assume that it is because James L. Nederlander Jr., Broadway royalty, has entered the room.

Will stands in respect, greets Nederlander with a strong handshake, and invites him to take the seat next to him.    
“An honour,” Nederlander nods as he sets down his briefcase, sits, and flips up the table on his chair, already snapping down a notepad and pen. Will does the same. 

James Nederlander is a large man, with the charisma of an over inflated beach ball. But he knows how to do business, and in all his fifty six years, he’s learned a thing or two.

“Who’re we missing now?” Nederlander frowns as he eyes up the two empty seats on the other side of the circle, flicking his eyes up to the clock on the far wall of the studio. Ten minutes till ten.    
“Leon Gaunnes,” and then Accolon’s face goes a shade paler, though unnoticeably, “and Pendragon.”   
“I  _ bet  _ it’s Merlin. I bet you, I’ll bet you cookies, that they’re stragglers because Merlin’s marching them down the sidewalk.”   
“Will,” Accolon turns to his side, “Though I love those cookies to the end of the earth and back, I’m not going to take part in a bet that I know I’m going to lose.”   
“Fair enough,” Will smiles triumphantly as he leans back in his seat. He’s running high on nervous energy, and if one looked closely, you’d see his hands shaking slightly. But he keeps it in, fingers tapping against the swing up table.

_ -+- _

“See,” Merlin raises his arms high, “early. I’ve gotten you two here in one piece, and we’re all early.”   
Arthur grunts in displeasure as his hand is dropped unceremoniously - again - so Merlin can declare his triumph.    
“Go get ‘em,” Merlin returns his arms to a more normal altitude, finds Arthur’s hand again and moves his thumb soothingly across Arthur’s palm. 

Merlin is aware that Arthur is slowly turning to stone, in preparation to face the man whom he destroyed, now more powerful than him in the production of this show. Arthur feels many things, now; guilt first and foremost, as his college mistakes rise to the surface in his mind. He feels tense, though he knows the role is perfect for him and the songs are gorgeous and inviting. He feels  _ scared,  _ breathing deeply in anticipation to deal with what he’s going to face in the studio, the possible passive aggressiveness, the broken stares, the white-knuckle reminiscing of what could have been. He also feels Merlin’s warmth pulsing through him, akin to some type of foreign magic, and it gives him the strength to stride confidently up to the studio.

“I’ll see you bright and vaguely on time for the evening show,” Merlin feels his lips curl upwards as he watches his star climb up. He knows that Arthur  _ might  _ hesitate for a split second, turn back to look at him one last time, but thank god he doesn’t.

_ -+- _

“Technically, they’re still early,” Will commentates, looking between Accolon and the clock, which informs them it’s four minutes to ten. But Accolon’s eyes are washed over.   
“Morning, Pendragon, Gaunnes,” Nederlander stands to do the greeting this time, as the Fiyero and his understudy stride into the room. Arthur swings around when he hears his name, and extends his hand, halting his expedition to the empty seats on the other side of the room.   
“Nederlander,” Arthur presses his lips together in a professional smile, “always a pleasure.”   
Leon does the same, following Arthur’s example, before the two turn to fill the remaining two seats in the circle.

“How’s Merlin?” Will raises his voice over the idle chatter in the studio.   
“Same as always, strangely punctual, though. And he’s got a weird bag. Well, it’s a rather nice bag, but rather nice things and Merlin usually don’t go together.”   
“I don’t know what you’ve gotten into him, Arthur, but keep him that way.”

_ -+- _

“Well,” Will stands once the circle is fully assembled, and silences the group with; “I’d like to thank you all for agreeing to join me on this excruciating journey of bringing  _ Tyrants  _ to the stage. Today, we’ll start with a read through of the first act, before lunch, and then see how much of the second act we can get through before a lot of you have to meet your respective call times.” He looks around, surveying his cast. “Well, we’ve got half the cast of  _ Wicked  _ here, so we’ll be able to keep going for a while, I can see.”   
There’s a faint round of polite laughs, before Will gets down to business.    
“Act one of  _ Tyrants, _ ” he sweeps across the room, “let’s get into it. But first, I’d like to welcome our accompanist for today.”

The glass door is pushed open one more time, an outlier, but that’s not unusual for the man who enters. 

“Morning, Will,” Merlin greets his friend brightly, before proceeding to drop his scores down out of his perfectly-sized satchel on the desk next to the piano. 

Arthur whines like a lost puppy.    
“Surprise,” Will smiles at the tenor across the circle. “If you thought you could get rid of him for a day, you’re wrong.”

Arthur feels the instinct to rebut, but his tongue holds itself. It makes his day, the fact that Merlin had hidden his part in the putting-together of this musical from him. But now, as he watches Merlin stretch his fingers out and lift the lid of the keyboard, his smile creeps back onto his face uninvited, but Arthur doesn’t really mind. He’s hopelessly in love, and the rest of the cast knows it.

“Cuuuute,” he hears Sophia Fey muse from her seat near the door. Arthur tries to shoot her a look, but his infectious smile still stains his face.

He thinks about how Merlin is always there; always leaving his contagious smile on the faces of those whom he passes. He thinks about how Arthur is only externally immune to this, bracing himself to employ his strongest acting techniques when he has to fight the instinct to grin widely in return. He thinks about what Laura Osnes said in that one interview a while back, and the words swim through his mind as the first notes trickle out from the piano, signifying the start of the show.

_ “He’s subtle in that way, Merlin. You don’t notice him at first, but when you’ve been around him long enough, he has a way of bleeding into your life. Twisting into the things you do every day, intertwining his habits into your routine. And when you take a step back, you finally realise how different your life would be without him. Merlin Emrys is a force to be reckoned with.” _

Of course Merlin, alone at the piano, has the first notes of the show.

Arthur knows the score well enough to know that he has the last.

Maybe that’s how things work between the both of them, Merlin starting things and Arthur finishing them, until one of them runs out of energy to keep the world going. 

_ -+- _

The first song in the show involves everyone except Arthur. 

It’s not really fair, the curses of being a lead, Arthur pouts, as he hears the glorious sound fill the studio, watches Will lean back and tap his foot excitedly on the floor, sees Nederlander smiling slightly as he starts scribbling down miscellaneous notes straight away. But Arthur resigns and watches Merlin at the piano instead, over the top of Will’s head, a perfect window for him left between the standing cast and the producer and composer sitting in the embrace of the music. Merlin matches the energy of the cast easily, fingers dancing over the keys, even more incredibly precise in his performance than his drunken accuracy. Arthur doesn’t know how he does it; instruments never came easily to him, and the lift of Merlin’s elbows and the curve of his back as he leans into a new chord flood his vision. The harsh sound of the cast synchronously flipping to the next page of the score breaks him out of his haze, and he turns his page too, readying himself for the duet that followed the opening number.

The opening finishes with a heavy chord, resonant in the small studio, and cues the cast to sit down, desperately grabbing at their water bottles. Save Mordred, who stays on his feet and nods as Arthur rises for the next number. 

Arthur feels a particular pair of eyes burning into his neck as he keeps his eyes fixed on either his copy of the score or Mordred, alternating between the two. But he pushes his past aside, and prepares to do what he came here for; to sing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for you kudos, comments, and love, but i still really need to study oh my gdo


	23. peanut butter patty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHILE READING, LISTEN TO: 'Grief' by Alexander Sage Oyen  
> Find it here: http://www.alexandersageoyen.com/shows in the 'Tyrants' section.
> 
> ^ from now on, if I use a song in the chapter, I'll suggest that you listen to it while you read to get the vibe of it 
> 
>  
> 
> this chapter contains a lot of references to previous chapters, so i suggest you read them before reading this if you haven't :))

**chapter twenty two / peanut butter patty**

Morgana goes and gets another star tattooed on her neck that morning.

_ -+- _

“I’m going to rent out a motorbike,” Accolon concludes, pushing back sheets of paper across the table. “I’ll be zooming around the city these next few weeks, between costumers and rehearsal spaces and theaters and clients, and my beloved metro delays just aren’t going to cut it for me.”   
“You’ve got the leather jackets for it, anyway,” Morgana comments over her breakfast. “And I, for one, wouldn’t mind seeing you in them more often.”   
“You  _ do  _ know how to convince me,” Accolon clicks at a few links, infectious smile climbing past his stubble.

_ -+- _

To be completely true, neither of them know how the other is going to react. Neither of them really know how they’re going to react themselves.

When they finish the first run through of the first act and the team bursts into applause and Will declares a lunch break and they all file out of the small studio, Accolon says simply, “good job today, Pendragon,” when the room contains just the two of them. Arthur responds with a small nod of his head and a quiet, “thank you,” all very professional, and follows the cast out. 

And that’s all.

Accolon watches as Arthur closes the door behind him, walking faster to catch up with his beloved accompanist who’d sped out of the studio at lightning pace. He waits until the door is closed, sinks to the ground, and bashes a fist against the wall. 

He doesn’t make a sound.

Of course Arthur is professional about it, and of course he is, too. He feels the a strange prickling behind his closed eyelids - tears? - but he pushes it back in fear of breaking. He’s not allowed to break.

He is Accolon Gaul, and at one point, his name was all that he owned. Now, he is one of the most successful young directors in New York City, a name in the running for this year’s Forbes 30 under 30, with the world at his feet and the day waiting for him. 

But Arthur Pendragon owns something that Accolon doesn’t; his spot on that stage, those lines highlighted, the quick swigs of water when he has a short segue to get around. He is the one who will get the flowers at the stagedoor on opening night, the one who the audience will forever associate with the show, the one who will have his dazzling pro-shots posted up around the city that never sleeps.

It all could’ve been him.

Should’ve been him.

He doesn’t want to say that his blood runs cold for a second, but he can’t deny it. 

_ -+- _

Schmackary’s is just around the corner.

Merlin feels a little deprived of the best cookies in the country, having not visited in a matter of days. So when he pushes open the glass door, lets the scent of happiness and youth wash over him, Merlin leans on Arthur’s waiting chest and shuts his eyes, holding onto his two most prized feelings in the world.

The cast crowds into a booth on the left of the cafe, the thirteen of them (eleven singers, with the welcome additions of Will and Merlin,) sitting though a little squashed at three joined tables. Merlin manages to make a succinct order in record time; knowing every Schmackary’s employee on a first name basis does have its perks.

_ -+- _

Accolon and Nederlander sit half a block away from their cast and composer over lunch at Marseille. 

They talk business, the ups and downs, opening night, set designers, tech managers. Accolon writes down names, Nederlander writes down phone numbers. Accolon, employing his full mastery of the English language, manages on many occasion to evade a conversation about the one man he particularly does not want to talk about. Nederlander doesn’t seem to notice. 

_ -+- _

The director never gets to bow on stage.

_ -+- _

The theater is sold out, and the audience goes wild on opening night. Every person in the house is standing as Morgause and Arthur come out to bow. Their voices are sore from the demanding score, eyes tired from the unfaltering lights, hearts racing from the rush of being in a show as glorious as  _ The Last Five Years.  _ Out of routine, they clap down at the orchestra pit, then turn their heads upwards to the sound booth, then swinging left to indicate their appreciation for the crew.

_ -+- _

The director never gets their round of applause.

_ -+- _

“Act two,” Will sits in a position that surely cannot be comfortable, “mission is a ‘go.’”

The cast drop their water and straighten their backs to attention, flipping to the required pages in their scripts. About half of them stand; Mordred, Morgause, Gwaine, Freya, Sophia, before Will turns to face Merlin at the piano. Merlin stretches his long fingers, waits for the nod, and when he gets it, doesn’t look back.

The song that opens the second act is a condensed version of the one that closed the first. The female members of the ensemble balance the strong tenors found in Mordred and Gwaine with a gentle harmony, before Morgause flies in with an extraordinary example of her legit soprano range. 

It always takes the room a little by surprise, when Morgause breaks through the glass ceiling with her crystal high notes, vibrato perfectly rounded on each quaver she runs through. Will contains a hoot of enthusiasm he’s been holding in for the entire read-through.

Arthur stands next, two lines before he’s due to sing as according to an unspoken protocol. Merlin readies himself to play his favourite song in the show as his eyes skim forward to the next page. When he gets to it, he lets his right hand melt into the crying arpeggios, the soft chords in his left moving only when they have to. 

Accolon runs his finger down the progression of quickly-moving lines, and finds himself mouthing the words without telling himself to.

_ “Dear weary wanderer, _ __   
_ Come and rest your head _ __   
_ In the bed of a beautiful woman _ _   
_ __ You only met the night before.”

And he can  _ see  _ the finished production in his head, ready on opening night at the Public, polished to perfection.

_ -+- _

_ “Dear weary wanderer, _ __   
_ Forget the life you’ve lead. _ __   
_ Forget the things you said _ __   
_ To your father, _ _   
_ __ Who you’ll see no more.”

Accolon sits in the centre of the third row, watches Arthur grace the vacant set, faint spotlight settling on his shoulders. 

He knows that the song is just Arthur’s character singing to himself; singing of the days gone by in the sunlight. But, for Accolon, it’s more than that.

_ -+- _

_ “Is it harder than you thought that it would be; _ _   
_ _ To wish that you were some other somebody?” _

It’s Edwin Booth, Accolon reminds himself, Edwin Booth and not Arthur, who moves from upstage left to upstage centre on these lines. He fills his mind with technical nonsense to distract himself from the pressing words of the song, tracks each footstep on the stage, each flick of a wrist, soaks up each pluck of the accompanying guitar’s strings. He doesn’t want to remember how he wishes he were  _ some other somebody _ , as he hears the voice holding onto the words ever so slightly, clinging onto the soft notes.

_ -+- _

_ “Grief is always harder than you think. _ __   
_ Maybe now we’ll understand, _ _   
_ __ Why he used to drink.”

His mind flashes between two scenes quicker than he can tell it to stop; the slow turning of Arthur’s -- Edwin’s head to face the wings onstage, and the lavender lying abandoned on the floor of the boy’s bathroom, Clytaemestra calling vacantly on the other side of the heavy walls.

His breathing becomes heavier, and he bites down hard on his lip.

_ -+- _

_ “Hey, sleepy dreamer, _ __   
_ Don’t lose yourself in thought. _ __   
_ Think of what you’ve got; all of your talents, _ __   
_ Don’t you have him to thank? _ __   
_ Don’t, sleepy dreamer, _ _   
_ __ Regret the things you’re not.”

The next thing Accolon sees is himself up on that stage; it’s his head turning, it’s him moving slowly from upstage left to upstage centre then downstage centre within the verse, his shoulders relaxed in the artificial moonlight. He feels at home in the character’s skin, gentle drafts from the cold stage drifting around him, cocooning him in a house of his own wistful creation.

He doesn’t regret the things he’s not. He doesn’t think about regret, because regret stops you from living, and Accolon intends to live his life short and sweet.

_ -+- _

_ “You might not have a lot, _ __   
_ But you have that talent, _ _   
_ __ You’ll take that to the grave.”

The stage has always been his home. 

Not the centre of the third row. Not where he misses out on his applause. Not hidden, in the endless rows of blue cotton-covered chairs, victim to the shadows that engulf the audience when the house lights go down.

_ -+- _

_ “Is it harder now to reconcile what’s gone? _ __   
_ Are there things you thought you’d fix as you moved on? _ __   
_ The world goes black in just one tiny blink; _ _   
_ __ Maybe now you understand why he used to drink.”

The guitar now plays for him, his voice washing over the endless rows of the audience, it’s his dark eyes that flicker in the silver shadows. It comes all too naturally, the movement he already imagines himself blocking for the song, the direction blurred out by the performance he feels coursing through his veins. This is where he belongs.

_ -+- _

_ “It’s easier to just give into grief. _ __   
_ It’s harder now to hold on to belief. _ __   
_ In a new life void of family and friends; _ _   
_ __ Is this where happiness ends?”

His nails are digging into his palm, he realises, as his other hand flies over his script, pushing notes into the margins. He feels the room engrossed in the voice of another tenor as the song builds, like a tsunami primed to crash and destroy. He increases the pressure on his pencil, taking himself back to his visions of opening night, where it is his name that headlines the marquee outside. Not the name belonging to the voice that fills the studio now.

_ -+- _

_ “Come handsome lover, _ __   
_ Now you’ve done it good _ __   
_ Never understood the sins of your father _ _   
_ __ How he’d act on every whim.”

His heart beats faster, his own mind scaring him. He thinks of Morgana’s hands clasped tightly around his own, her mouth moving, screaming, but he can’t hear anything she’s saying. He pulls tighter on her hands, dragging her down with him, down into the darkness as her desperate tears litter the ground beside his face.

_ -+- _

__   
_ “Come, handsome lover, _ _   
_ __ Stand just where he stood.”

And he  _ is  _ standing where  _ he  _ should be, where Arthur had stood at the start of the song in his mind; a bit off of centre stage at the Public Theater on opening night of  _ Tyrants,  _ a new musical, second song into the second act. The thought runs at record speed through his head; this is where he  _ should  _ be, where  _ he  _ should be, where he should  _ be.  _ And it suddenly becomes harder to see anyone but himself in the role, drawing the audience into his empty chest.

He lays down his heart at the feet of the world. 

He hears the whispers, of course he hears the whispers; he is powerless to ignore them. But he ignores them as he takes the final steps to centre stage. The music grows and the rest of the world fades out. 

He erases those whispers in his final verse. 

_ -+- _

_ “He always knew you would, _ __   
_ And he was right. _ __   
_ Are you just like him? _ _   
_ __ Are you just like him?”

But then he’s back in the rehearsal studio, and there’s no guitar, save Merlin’s agile fingers dancing over the piano keys, and he’s still sitting in his cold chair as the cast offers a pattering of claps as Arthur finishes the solo, standing alone.

He remembers the first day of college; the horrifying experience they called freshman induction, the girl in the front row with her mouth hanging open because of the scholarship kid, the feeling of realising he had overthrown Arthur Pendragon’s privileged tenor status for the first time. 

There are thoughts growing in his head, all because of that repeated line -  _ are you just like him? -  _ and it makes Accolon afraid of what his mind is capable of. Is he just like him? Is he, in the grand scheme of things, just like Arthur - just like Uther? What qualities does he possess that bring these thoughts to the surface? He digs his fingernails deeper into the palm of his hand, washing away the whispers of Morgana’s touch.

It will never be Accolon’s final verse. It will always be Arthur’s.

Except maybe this time.

_ -+- _

_   
_ _ “Now you’re just like him.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i never realised how perfect Guilt was for the Accolon vs Arthur fiasco until I started writing this chapter!! if you give any song a listen, listen to Guilt because it's absolutely stunning and sums up this story so perfectly.  
> here's the link again: http://www.alexandersageoyen.com/shows


	24. sweet corn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still not studying for exams lmao

**chapter twenty three / sweet corn**

When he graduates from high school, Arthur gets a motorbike.

Sure, his father has the contact of every high-end car dealership in the state, but Arthur argues his case well, and goes ahead with his plan of action.

He loves the feeling of zooming through the city, laughing at the cars queuing up hundreds of metres before an intersection as he sneaks through the lanes to the front.

He feels alive as he zips away from his father’s office.

_-+-_

Will shakes a lot of hands after the read-through.

Nederlander first and foremost, as the producer stands at four and thanks the cast for the extraordinary afternoon.

“I’ll be in for the second part of tomorrow’s rehearsal. I’m looking forward to it,” he says, as he leaves.

Percival next, who has an earlier call time than the _Wicked_ cast, and a further distance to travel, almost breaks Will’s hand when he shakes it. Will feels his wrist being dragged down but quickly regains his balance, raising his eyebrows at the strength.

Gwaine and Leon, the ensemble, Mordred; Will feels as though his wrist might fall off. Accolon stays seated in the seat next to where WIll is going through the formal procession, acknowledging each actor as they leave with a compliment and reminder of tomorrow’s rehearsal - “Mordred, I’ve never heard better semiquaver runs. See you tomorrow, same place same time,” or “Gwaine, I’m going to get in contact with the casting director and tell them I’d like to be involved with whatever work they do in the future, because you were perfectly cast. Get _The Bro Duet_ down for tomorrow, yeah?” And Gwaine claps him on the shoulder, with an inevitable, “thanks bro, but no homo,” and laughs all the way to the door.

Merlin stuffs his music into his bag, not really minding that most of it promptly creases itself, as Arthur stands to leave. He closes the piano lid delicately, caring much more for the instrument than his own property, and slings the strap of the satchel unelegantly over his shoulder.

“Thanks for letting me be a part of this phenomenon, William,” Arthur takes his turn to shake the composer’s hand, “one of, or the best, dare I say it, new show I’ve seen in a long time.”  
Will beams like a glow worm on steroids. “Coming from _the_ Arthur Pendragon, that means a lot, thank you.”   
“Anytime,” Arthur tries to delay having to look down to meet Accolon’s eye, but the director does it for him.

“Good work today, Pendragon,” he says, reaching up from his seat to shake his hand.  
Arthur accepts the gesture. “The same to you, Gaul.”   
Accolon’s handshake is brief and tense, and his hand retreats quickly as though it’s been stained. “See you tomorrow.”

And Arthur is out the door, leaving Will and Accolon - oh, and Merlin, - in the studio.

Will looks over to where Merlin is still leaning on the piano. They’re both grinning stupidly, wide grins plastered on their faces.

Accolon finds it somewhat contagious, and it lightens his mood a great deal to see the two fools smiling so ridiculously at each other.   
“Go on,” he allows, “hug it out,” and that’s all it takes for the two childhood friends to all but pummel each other in the chest, still high off of the success of the read-through.

“I’m so proud of you, Will,” and even Merlin thinks that he sounds stupidly sappy, but at this point, he doesn’t care.  
Will makes some undecipherable noise in reply, and the two rock from side to side for a second, engulfed in the joy their art has brought them.

_-+-_

This is what they live for.

_-+-_

Arthur waits outside, back leaning against the harsh brick wall, waiting for the familiar chatter to float down the stairs.

And it comes, all two - all _three_ voices drifting down the stairwell and out onto the street. He hears the repercussions of Merlin shoving Will’s side into the metal stairwell; hears the stream of mortifying insults that flow back; hears the blur of what must’ve been an exquisite, witty joke that manages to silence _both_ Merlin and Will, before a howl of laughter emerges from the latter and the three presumably all catapult down the stairs. Arthur winces when the crash comes, four feet bashing loudly onto the ground floor and one more sensible character landing a second after.

It takes longer than Arthur expects for the door to the outside world swing open, perhaps explaining why only two people emerge.

Merlin and Will are _still_ smiling stupidly, arms around each other’s shoulders. Arthur doesn’t really want to delve any further.

“Well,” he says, picking himself up off of the wall, “Merlin and I have a show to do, so if you’d excuse us-”  
“Actually,” Merlin detaches himself from his friend and prods Arthur in the chest with a long finger, “ _you_ have a show to do. Will and I have some cookies to address.”

Arthur pouts.  
“Don’t worry,” Merlin chimes, “I’ll bring you some for after the show. Hurry along now, don’t want to be late for your call time.”   
“ _Mer_ lin, you can’t just leave me t-”   
“Hey look,” Merlin points across the street, “Bernadette Peters!”   
Arthur’s eyes widen and he twists his body in a split second to catch a glimpse of his hero. But she’s not there.

He turns back to reprimand Merlin, but finds him and Will halfway down the block, sprinting away, arms flapping by their sides.  
“See you at call time!” Merlin shouts clumsily over his shoulder.

Arthur opens his mouth to yell something back, but he doesn’t, running his tongue over his teeth instead, and shakes his head. He knows that he shouldn’t let Merlin get away with this sort of thing day after day, but as he looks around at the darkening city, he realises that now he’s the one with that stupid smile stuck on his face.

_-+-_

Morgana aligns the tap of her heels on the sidewalk with the cast recording playing through her earphones. It takes a bar or two, but it sets her mind at ease when she doesn’t have to deal with the syncopation her heels dare to create at the start of every new song. She pulls her coat tighter around her, feeling the chills of winter starting to attack as the sun sets. She hates having to keep her singing lessons a secret from the world, but one has to make sacrifices.

She looks down as she walks, so as to avoid catching the eye of anyone who would surely ask what she was out to do, but this means that she can’t see if anything would be approaching her at a speed greater than that at which she were walking and this means that she just so happens to run into -  
“Oh, Merlin,” she presses her lips into a thin smile, “fancy seeing you out here.”   
Merlin raises his eyebrows, not really sure what he’s supposed to say. “Will and I were just, you know, heading to Schmackary’s. You should come, if you want.”   
Morgana shakes her head slightly. “You know me, got things to do, busy all the time.” Her fingers fiddle, tapping rhythms onto her jeans. Merlin nods slowly. “Last I saw of Accolon, he was still at the studio. Offer still stands if you’re craving cookies any time, though,” he offers.   
“Thank you, Merlin. And,” she looks Will up and down, and a little suspiciously at Merlin’s arm still slung nonchalantly around his shoulder.   
“I’m straight,” Will clarifies.   
“Childhood friends.”   
“Ah,” Morgana twists her earphone cords between her fingers, “I’ll see you around then.”

And she walks past them, a minor inflection on her route.

_-+-_

“Cereal Killer, Red Velvet,” Merlin says to the girl behind the counter. “The latter for an irrelevant dresser, and the former for the composer, lyricist, playwright and all-round creator of what is definitely going to be the most successful off-Broadway musical of all time.”  
Will shoves Merlin in the side. “Shut _up_ , Merl, you’re going to make a scene.”

_-+-_

Accolon stands in the lobby as casually as he can manage, leaning against the wall that separates him from the street. He looks out the glass panel next to the door every few minutes, checking to see if the bright red _Camelot: ON BROADWAY_ cast hoodie has disappeared. It eventually does, and Accolon takes it as his cue for a safe exit.

He hates how he quivers in the presence of the Pendragon son, hates how he surrenders his power and waivers under the thumb of the star in the name of professionalism. Hates how he doesn’t have the guts to fight back, dare to disagree, stand up to the man who destroyed him.

So when he finally leaves the building, his feet carrying him through the city he has learned to call home, his eyes close as the noise sweeps around him.

_-+-_

“Sweet corn,” Merlin jeers as he looks up at the seasonal menu, “that’s a dumb name for a cookie.”  
“Should just call it candy corn.”   
“The problem with that, my dear William, is that nobody would buy it, because everyone hates candy corn.”   
Will drops his cookie on the table, looking mortally wounded. “You take that back, Merlin.”   
It’s Merlin’s turn to look offended, as if someone had just told him that the entire Schmackary’s chain was closing down. “I’m a man of my words, and I’m going to stand by them.”   
“If that’s how you accept that you’re so obviously _wrong_ , then so be it.”   
“Each to their own, even they’re wrong.”   
“You’re wrong.”   
“ _You’re_ wrong.”

_-+-_

“He doesn’t _have_ to show up at the same time as you. I mean,” Gwen consoles, “we’re lucky enough to work in a job that we love infinitely, but if I worked as anything else, I wouldn’t want to turn up for work when I didn’t have to.”   
“But,” Arthur starts, before realising that Gwen does have a point.   
“Just because you don’t like spending time without him doesn’t mean you two have to be attached at the hip all the time.”   
“But he’s _Mer_ lin, and I’m Arthur, and we’re meant to be, like,” Arthur waves his hands around, “you know?”   
“Someone missing me, already?” Merlin drops his leather satchel in the corner of the room.

Arthur doesn’t want to say that his eyes brighten when he hears Merlin come into the room, but he’d be lying if he said they didn’t.   
“Told you so,” Gwen smirks as she sweeps out of the room.

“What was that about?” Merlin watches her leave, turning to the costume rack when she shuts the door behind her.  
“She was arguing your case,” Arthur spins on his chair at the mirror, “that you don’t need to turn up at _my_ call time just because, and I quote, I’m ‘hopelessly in love with you, and whine about not being with you for every minute of the day we spend apart.’”   
Merlin snorts. “I hope it makes you feel better that the feeling is mutual.”

Arthur spins to look at the back of his moving head, eyes tracing the dark hair at the base of the neck that stirs when Merlin turns his head to grab a jacket at the end of the rack.

He can’t believe how lucky he is to have ended up with this man in his heart.

_-+-_

**accolon w/ the ass** (8:44 PM)   
fancy a night out??

 **Gwaine** (8:46 PM)   
what bar u thinkin

 **accolon w/ the ass** (8:46 PM)   
up to you

 **accolon w/ the ass** (8:46 PM)   
this is your field of specialty i trust you on this one

_-+-_

“Three weeks and you could have your audition portfolio ready,” Helen sets down her pencil after the lesson. “We need to get you some experience before you go for bigger shows, though.”  
“What did you have in mind?”   
Helen taps her delicate fingers on her planner. “There’s a concert coming up that I could probably get you int-”   
“How public?”   
“Quite. It’d be great for your name, your image, but with the Pendragon business, I guess you might not want to go that route just yet.”   
Morgana nods from her stool in the corner.   
“So we’re thinking of something public that your folks would avoid at all costs.” Helen’s brow furrows, fingers stilling.

_-+-_

“I was thinking Amateur Night at the Apollo,” Morgana suggests, clicking the heels of her ballet flats together.   
Uther stares down at her, condescendingly. “ _Amateur_ night,” he jeers, “hosted by a _comedian._ ”   
“Just the one,” Morgana says. She presses her hands flat against her crocheted dress, pushing her fingers through the spaces between the patterns.   
“Look, Morgana,” Uther lowers himself to place his hands heavily on her shoulders. Morgana flinches. “There is much better theatre that we could see in this city. We have the best shows in the world at our footsteps. We’re not watching Amateur Night.”

Arthur is silent, looking at the floor. He stays out of the conflict, scuffing his dress shoes against the ground, twisting the long sleeves of his burgundy shirt around his forearms as far as it would go. He looks up at the flashing billboards in the Square, squints at the glowing women with their waists tucked in to a measurement that surely can’t be naturally possible. He doesn’t like looking at them, anyway.

_-+-_

“Good idea,” Helen says, “if you think it’ll be as far away from your father’s eyes as you can manage, I can get you in easily.”

Morgana’s face relaxes into a smile.   
“Thank you, Helen,” she breathes. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

_-+-_

It doesn’t take long at all for Accolon to reach the bar that Gwaine recommends, as he zips cleanly through the city on his new motorbike.

Gwaine is already waiting outside the bar when arrives - nondescript, 24-27 Jackson Avenue. The only thing giving the bar away in the night is a blue neon sign hanging off of the endless brick wall, shouting “BAR” in capitals to the world.  
“A bar in Queens,” Accolon says as he sweeps his helmet off, quirking his eyebrow. “We’re getting real subtle now, aren’t we?”   
“A man’s gotta know his way around,” Gwaine replies, hands resting on his hips as he watches Accolon dismount his ride.   
“Fair enough,” Accolon joins him on the sidewalk, looking up at the building. “Dutch Kills,” he reads the name of the bar, “colloquial. Let’s get a move on.”   
“Rough day?” Gwaine holds back, a little intrigued at the source of Accolon’s strange behaviour.   
“You wouldn’t believe the half of it. This fucking Pendragon crew,” Accolon swings open the door to the bar. The loud music cuts him off, and he never ends up finishing his sentence.   
“First round’s on me,” he says instead, which Gwaine doesn’t object to.

_-+-_

Morgana gets back to her apartment and for once, is surprised to find it empty.

Accolon has all but moved in, without either of them explicitly telling him to, but his presence floats through her apartment.

So as Morgana tentatively steps through her own home, running a hand lightly over the marble benchtop she passes, she feels as though she’s missing someone.  She _knows_ that it’s not in her way to be monitoring his every move, he’s free to roam wherever he pleases, but being at _home_ without him now doesn’t give her the right to call the place home.

She kicks her heels off by the door, desperately flicking through her phone to turn some music on to fill as much of the empty space as she can.

_-+-_

The music isn’t his usual music by any means, but it’s loud, and that’s all he really needs now.

He wants to drown it all out by any means; whether it be with alcohol, noise, the harsh thudding in his brain that causes him to find himself leaning against the bar, looking down as his eyes trace the grain of the wood.

It’s all too clear in his head, even through the sacred haze of midnight’s alcohol. He still sees that scene in his head, so defined, so picturesque on that stage, the dark blue air swimming in the spotlights. He still feels the gentle draughts of the stage creeping through the whole theater, intoxicating the audience, hypnotising till the last whisper disappears through the endless rows. He can still see Arthur standing centre stage as he croons out the last lines of the ballad - _are you just like him? -_ as the lights fade slowly, his features disappearing into the empty set. He can still see Arthur standing there, the audience hanging onto his every word, leaning forward in their seats. He can still hear Arthur’s voice climbing up to the shimmering top notes, daring to brush over them before he trickles back down through the verses. He can still feel all of it; his directorial vision harshly branded into his mind. But this afternoon, he saw himself standing centre stage. He can’t see that anymore.

He might blame the alcohol.

But he blames Arthur Pendragon instead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok it kind of sounds like gwaine and accolon are a thing; lets be clear - they're not !!  
> just two sickly straight guys with a tough life drowning themselves in alcohol, because, same


	25. the peanut gallery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you should really listen to grief by alex sage oyen if you haven't already! you can find it on his website under the 'shows section' !!!

**chapter twenty four / the peanut gallery**

She reads the cast list on a Monday lunch during exams. 

Morgana comes to the theater after eating her lunch, and tells her friend to go read it first.

She doesn’t know what it’s going to say, doesn’t know how she’s going to react if her name isn’t on it. Doesn’t know how she’ll manage the year without the promise of a show to return home to. 

So she waits outside the building as Steph prances in, blissfully oblivious to how much Morgana needs this.  
“You might want to take a look at it,” Steph emerges relatively quickly. Her tone is completely neutral, and no matter how good Morgana is at reading people, for the first time in her life she can’t decipher Steph’s voice. So she trudges into the building, fearing the worst, not even closing her eyes quick enough before they find the words that would determine her fate for the next year -

_ Cinderella .......................................................... Morgana Pendragon _

And she finds the widest smile making its home on her face, the joy flowing into her bloodstream until she’s high on the excitement. She’s practically bouncing around, feet skipping, before Steph embraces her in a tight hug.   
“I knew you could do it, superstar,” she hears, whispered into her ear, as the two stand there for a second, ignoring the people starting to trickle past them to catch a glimpse of the list.

She doesn’t care about anything else in the world now. She’ll be happy for the next year.

So she pries herself from Steph’s arms and hurries to take a photo of the cast list on her phone, before the two of them leave the theater, hearts filled with a newfound joy.

_ -+- _

“I never knew how powerful all these ‘cloud’ mechanisms are,” Morgana says over a facetime call to Gwen, watching her photos from ten years ago file onto her phone. She remembers each memory vividly, not knowing if that’d be a blessing or a curse, as her eyes flicker between each new photo as it loads.

There’s Arthur, maybe twelve or thirteen, his hair a disappointing shade in the middle of blonde and brunette. He’s holding one of the costumes he gets to wear in the finale of whatever musical he’d done that year -  _ Dirty Rotten Scoundrels? -  _ and laughing at the tassles on the back. 

There’s a photo of the dog that they had back then, the Vizsla, all long legs and kind eyes. Cavall stretches proudly in a pool of jacarandas, floating above the purple cloud that coated the floor. There’s a hand in the corner of the photo, possibly Morgana’s own, blurry with movement.

There’s a photo of the first visit to Schmackary’s that she remembers, with Arthur pointing up at the chalkboard menu. The cafe had a lot more blue in it ten years ago, she concludes as she examines the changes, morphing slowly into a cream paradise as it aged.

And then she sees a photo she doesn’t quite recognise; it’s not focused and takes a lot longer to load than the others, even though it just looks like a blur of off-white paper with some markings she doesn’t really need to remember. So she goes to delete it, thumb hovering over the button as she waits for it to load. But she skims over it before her thumb can fall onto the screen.

Something washes over her inside as the  _ Into the Woods  _ cast list imprints itself in her mind. She can’t bring herself to delete it.

Maybe before, she would’ve gotten rid of it as fast as she could, a memory too painful for the fact that she could never experience such happiness again. But now something new burns inside her, a determination that she knows means that  _ Into the Woods  _ won’t be the end.

“You should go to sleep, Morgana,” Gwen’s voice echoes over the call. “It’s late.”

_ -+- _

Accolon decides that he should stop when the room blurs around him. He sees the mosaic fleur de lis patterns around the bar, the aggressive red bleeding into the white walls, challenging him to focus his vision before he blacks out. But he holds on, straining his eyes until they’re open too wide, the world pushing down on him. He’s standing on the side of the bar again, leaning against the offending mosaic walls, watching Gwaine in the centre of the room. The Broadway quality dancing pays off, he concludes, if one wishes to exploit such talents every night, dancing the days away at bars like these. It’s not really Accolon’s style, to waste nights like this, but one won’t kill him. It might even save him, every now and again. 

He decides that Gwaine’s currently in ample company and won’t miss him if he leaves. So he steals away into the cold night outside, before realising that he’s far too drunk to drive a motorbike, he’s in a completely different borough to where he wants to be, and that his only friend here is also shitfaced drunk and wouldn’t know how to drive a motorbike anyway. He’s been blaming Arthur Pendragon for every inconvenience in his life so far tonight, so this time isn’t any different.

This is when Accolon also realises that he doesn’t actually  _ live  _ with Morgana, and that he literally  _ owns an apartment  _ in Queens  within walking distance. He presses his hands harshly against the seat of his motorbike, letting his back stretch out, hanging his head heavily between his shoulders as his neck slumps. He surrenders, tucking his helmet under his arm and finding his way back to the wall to follow it home. 

_ -+- _

“You’re right,” Morgana eyes the clock. Half past one. “Who am I kidding. You’re always right.”   
“So they say,” Gwen giggles. “Goodnight, Morgana.”   
“Night.”

And then Gwen is gone, too, and the apartment is still far too empty for Morgana’s liking. 

She goes to sleep lonely under the diamond lights.

_ -+- _

The nights are usually quiet for Arthur and Merlin. 

Show nights usually mean they find themselves wandering home to Merlin’s apartment in the small hours of the morning, high off of the love they drown in at the stage door. They walk slowly down to the subway, swinging their joined hands back and forth between them. They don’t need to talk; all their words drained between their friends on one side of the stagedoor and their fans on the other. Some nights Arthur falls asleep on the train, his head nodding slowly onto Merlin’s shoulder as the train drags them through the city towards whatever place they’ll call home. Tonight is one of those nights.

The show had been sold out this evening, starting at seven for the kids who’d had the need to get home to their warm beds early. Two hours and forty five minutes later, the cast had taken their bows, holding the position only as long as they needed but soaking in every microsecond of applause as if their life depended on it. Which, in the grand scheme of things, was true.

Then there’s time between them all filing offstage, breathing out of their characters for a good five minutes before the noise of vocal warmdowns start. Gwen is a bit of an outlier; she spends twenty minutes getting out of her green paint first. Arthur more than makes up for that time with his arpeggios, and they usually catch up to each other before they get out of the stagedoor. 

Merlin finishes up his job with Mordred. They talk more, these days; they have more to talk  _ about.  _ So they talk about how Merlin met Will in the first week of high school because someone shamed them for both being music nerds, they talk about how Merlin became so good at the piano, they talk about how Arthur is actually a giant teddy bear at heart (Mordred) or how he’s “a complete dick, disgusting lightweight, and arrogant prat, but yet I’m completely infatuated with him,” (Merlin.)

“You keep him sane,” Mordred says, as Merlin deals with one of his headpieces. “I can’t imagine that being an easy task.”   
“You’d be right,” Merlin returns.  _ But I wouldn’t let anyone else do it. _

_ -+- _

“Acting is  _ basically  _ making a living selling lies.”   
“Like you’d know,  _ Mer _ lin. You could lie anyway and not get paid for it.” Walking the short distance from the subway to the rehearsal studios has become a great session for Merlin to let his tongue loose in the crisp mornings, and Arthur has to set himself up to tolerate it.   
“It’s better to lie for free than to lie and make personal financial gain. Isn’t that just the slightest bit ethically wrong?”   
“I don’t know  _ how  _ Will coped with you all those years, and I haven’t the slightest clue why he signed you on as a pianist.”   
“You love me, though.”   
“Hmm,” Arthur quickens his pace to keep up with his boyfriend, “that’s the problem.”

_ -+- _

Accolon ignores his hangover to the best of his ability, finds himself walking back to where he left his motorbike last night, squinting his eyes to ignore the flashing blue neon sign he’d succumbed to yesterday. It’s turned off now, but it still glares bright as ever against the darkness painted in the back of his eyelids.

He feels a pang of guilt in not checking if Gwaine got out alive either last night or this morning, so he settles the debt.

_ -+- _

**accolon w/ the ass** (9:22 AM)   
you get home okay?

**Gwaine** (9:26 AM)   
WHY ARE U AWKAE NWO

**Gwaine** (9:27 AM)   
aND TETXtING WITH PROPER PUNCTUAITon

**accolon w/ the ass** (9:27 AM)   
it’s a talent, I guess

**accolon w/ the ass** (9:27 AM)   
also, you’ve got like half an hour to get yourself to rehearsal

**Gwaine** (9:28 AM)   
fuck

**Gwaine** (9:28 AM)   
shit 

**accolon w/ the ass** (9:29 AM)   
see you at 10 on the dot!! 

_ -+- _

“I mean, I could never be an actor. Too much pressure to be perfect, you know. Like, you always have to be in perfect health,  _ look good  _ all the time -”   
“I can see why that’d be a challenge for you, then.”   
“Okay, now that’s just being mean. Like, you’re the one who decided to  _ date  _ me in the first place.”

_ -+- _

Will and Nederlander are there early this time, discussing words longer than Will ever thought he might’ve needed to know in his trade.

“We’re going to need to get some publicists on board. Have you got any graphic designers’ contacts under your belt? If we get advertisment design done first, then we can get that up and running.” Nederlander is on top of it, his years in the business letting the words roll of his tongue with ease. Will shakes his head slowly.   
“I can work with that,” Nederlander doesn’t bat an eye, handing over a folder, “here’s some sample posters from previous productions. I want you to have a look at these before the cast arrives today, and tell me which style you feel fits your show the best. I’m asking you because you’re the overlooking creator, the one who gave this show life. I want to make this as authentic to your creative vision as possible. I’m not big on the money, though the most authentic visions often bring in the most.”   
Will takes the folder in his hand, opening his mouth to respond, though he’s not really sure what he’s supposed to say. He’s saved by the glass door to the studio swinging open.

“Accolon Gaul,” Nederlander pipes up as though he hadn’t stopped talking at all, “just the man I wanted to see. Help Will with his promotional design ideas, won’t you?”   
“‘Course,” Accolon swings into the chair next to Will, flipping up the table attached to his chair for the posters to be set down on.

_ -+- _

The whole cast is almost there when 9:59 rolls around.  _ Almost. _

Gwaine piles into his seat unceremoniously with a few seconds to spare. Accolon looks down at his watch, raising his head again to see Gwaine saluting him in silence.

“Nice to see you here on time,” the director mocks him.   
“Just because you don’t need to sleep doesn’t mean the rest of us are superhuman.”

They’re lucky that no one else dares inquire further.

_ -+- _

“So, in today’s reading,” Will addresses the full cast from the centre of the circle, “we’re going to be doing a hell of a lot more stopping and starting. This means that we’re going to bully poor Merlin a whole lot.”   
“Don’t worry about it. I get bullied enough, dating a prick who hasn’t the basic human dignity to love and cherish his own boyfriend.”

Arthur looks into an invisible camera like he’s on  _ The Office.  _

Why he dates this man, he doesn’t know. 

“But we’ll still be going from the top again, so, Merl, if you’d like to take it away.”

And the score flies, dazzling under Merlin’s fingertips. The cast stands, ready to fill the room with the gorgeous sound they had invented only the day before. 

_ -+- _

“Not a bad show you’ve got there,” Merlin quirps to Will and the rest of the empty studio, for good measure, after the cast have filed out for lunch.    
But Will’s looking down at his phone, mouth frozen. Merlin’s brow creases.   
“What’s up?” He shoves his music quickly into his bag - that leather satchel again - not really caring about the dog ears pressed into the pages. Merlin scuttles over to where Will still hasn’t moved, reading off the screen over his friend’s shoulder.

**Uther Pendragon** (1:09 PM)  
Good afternoon, William Oyen; I hope that this won’t bother you that I’m sending such important information over Text Message.   
As you know, I’ve managed Morgause Belisent for over eight years, and she hasn’t been private about naming me as her agent. Because of this, it is myself who is tasked with passing you the information that Ms Belisent has been asked to leave for London earlier than her previous departure date for additional rehearsals. As you are two days into your allocated six weeks of rehearsals before previews commence, I regret to inform you that Ms Belisent will be leaving for London on the twenty second of this month, making her unavailable for your workshops. She has had no issue in accepting this to advance her international career, as her departure date from _Wicked_ is the nineteenth of this month. I hope that you are well equipped to handle this small inconvenience.  
Uther Pendragon.

“Okay, okay,” Merlin consoles, trying to push down the panic he can see arising in Will. “We can do this. You’ve dealt with things harder than this. Remember that one time in junior year, when that footballer punched a hole in your locker using nothing but sheer force, and then all your compositions got -”

“Today’s the twelfth of November, Merlin,” the urgency in Will’s voice becomes more desperate, “there’s no time for joking. That means we’ve got to find this soprano in  _ ten days. _ Ten days, Merlin! I’ve had detentions longer than that!”   
“I’ve got to remind you that you were never quite the star pupil -”   
“What’s going to happen next? Arthur’s walking down the road and someone knocks a streetlamp through his skull?”   
“Yeah, well, that wouldn’t be too unwelcome,” Merlin chirps, slowly trying to pry his friend from his state of minor paralysis. 

“You still here, boys?” And with this, they realise that the glass door has been sitting open for a while, with Accolon leaning on the other side. “Didn’t see you out for the lunch break.”

The director extends his arm, two brown paper bags attached to the end. Merlin leaves Will’s situation, graciously accepting the food.   
“Wrong colour paper bag,” he shakes his head in mock disappointment, his acting chops too feeble to hide his thankful grin.   
“Did you really think that I’d forget about that. Honestly, I don’t know  _ what  _ you see in me,” and Accolon’s acting is  _ definitely  _ better, as he produces another paper bag from seemingly nowhere; this one covered in promising vertical blue and white stripes.   
“Cereal Killer -”   
“And Red Velvet, I don’t know  _ why  _ you ever doubted me.”

Merlin’s wide smile does all of the talking as he retreats with the new donations of food, returning to console the estranged composer.    
“Oh, come on, Will. He even brought us cookies.”

Accolon’s still there, Merlin notes, leaning on the glass door when the cast starts to file back in. He greets them with such fervent charm, looks so happy to be there, looks so happy with what he’s achieved in his short, lightning intense life. He talks with each cast member as they trickle back into the rehearsal studio, complimenting them, critiquing them lightly, sharing a joke that leaves laugh lines behind every time without fault. Mordred passes through with the biggest smile Merlin’s ever seen plastered onto his face, soft laughs still carrying on even as he takes his seat. It’s Leon next, who takes Accolon’s hand in a professional shake as he receives a piece of constructive criticism, nodding and accepting his notable suggestions. And Percival, who for some reason shows off his biceps as he meets the director at the door. 

And then there’s Arthur, confident strides slowing down as he approaches the door. Merlin can practically hear his breathing, the two souls separated by a glass sheet but attached more than ever. 

“Pendragon,” Accolon extends his hand in the same uniform approach he’s practiced with every cast member today, “amazing work so far. Speeding through the show. Just like college days.”

He might regret saying that last sentence some day. But he’s never batted an eye at regret.

Arthur shakes his hand, paces into the room without a word. Accolon’s eyes follow him.

Merlin doesn’t know whose side he’s meant to be on. 

He knows that his heart lies with Arthur; the man whom he’s  _ loved  _ for so long. Day in and day out, Merlin knows that he’d follow him to the ends of the earth, give up all that he had just to ensure that Arthur lived on happily another day.

But for all his head knows, Arthur is in the wrong; shaking hands clasped around his vintage bottle of lavender oil, the flowers strewn across the floor in the primary school version of a dressing room, the expensive perfumes Morgana didn’t hesitate to gift away when she first lay eyes on her prey.  

And so Merlin stays where he’s meant to be, hands glossing over the piano lid, waiting to do what he’s told. 

_ -+- _

Someday, they’ll know that the motorbike went over the speed limit that evening. 

**Author's Note:**

> NB: This is in no way, shape or form endorsed by Schmackary's. I've never been to Schmackary's. I wish I could go to Schmackary's. I live in Australia. 
> 
> I've loved Merlin for so, so long, but this was my first time putting that love into words. Concrit 100% appreciated !!


End file.
